Cosa Nostra
by I Nightfox I
Summary: Born and raised in the shallows of human corruption, Harry Potter discovers the world that has laid beyond the brick wall. Join Harry as he confronts the echelons of Wizardry and does what he was raised to do -- gain control and power. Mafia!Harry.
1. Kill or Be Killed

Cosa Nostra

01. Kill or be Killed

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter universe, individual characters and ideals are my own.

I was never good at letting things get to me, it was how I was raised. There's only so much you can stomach until it gets to you.

At least, for normal people that's how it happens.

After having guns pressed into the nape of your neck, and pressing your own into theirs, that feeling goes away. That was what was happening right now, I had my .40 Smith and Wesson's muzzle firmly placed into the back of some guy's neck.

I didn't know this guy. Hell, I didn't even know his name. For all I cared he could have a little girl and boy sitting at home waiting for dad to get back, a loving wife standing next to the door wondering why this John Doe was late. That type of shit didn't really matter to me anymore. The point of the matter was that it was my job to kill this guy.

Would I get caught? Nah. I was good at my job. There were no prints on the gun I was holding and a small, shakily written suicide note would be placed in the jacket pocket. Maybe I'd even put the gun in his hand before I left, pointed in the proper directions of course.

That was life on the streets. Kill or be killed. Some of us had the protection of the boss. Some of us … let's just say they weren't so lucky.

I'm a nice guy, I'll let you know my name. Harry Potter. Yeah, I'm a bad-arse.

I could feel him shaking in front of the muzzle of my gun. Mumbled words spew forward from his mouth - incoherent rambling to whatever God this guy followed. Christ, Allah, hell, maybe he was an Atheist searching for some past redemption.

Redemption. Some of these boys would never get it.

I called him a boy. The man's probably thirty-something and I'm only fifteen. See, I'm a nice guy, I told you my age.

I unclipped the safety on my gun and pulled back the hammer, I could hear his breath hitch. From where the moon lurked above us, I could see tears streaming down his face. In the movies, there's always rain when some guy gets shot. In real life, there's no pitter-pattering of water on the cement floor. There's only traffic moving past you, maybe some horns in the distance. Sometimes you can here the police sirens sounding in the distance -- that always puts a little speed in your step.

"Don't fuck with us again" I hissed, maneuvering the gun to his temple.

The gunshot echoed in the silence of the alleyway. The sharp noise scared some alley cat in the corner, it always did. I could see the faint wisps of smoke leaving the tip of the gun, floating into nothingness after a few feet. I slipped the gun from my leather-covered hand into his rapidly cooling, fleshy hand. I placed the note in his jacket pocket and took one last sweeping glance over his dead body, not yet set with rigor mortis. I could see the crimson spurts of blood and gray matter covering the cement sidewalk. Maybe a few years ago I would've felt sick. Not anymore.

I walked away.

- - -

A short ride in a local taxi later landed me outside Vanzetti's Club. Maybe there's something I should tell you while I'm feeling charitable.

I do strange shit.

No, really. From what I've gathered from some of the people that I've talked to, the closest it could be called is telekinesis. I don't do it with my mind though. It's more of a desire, a will, to throw someone away through my hands. That's how I killed my first man -- his spinal column snapped after I threw him against the wall, without using my hands. I don't like to come off as narcissistic, but it's damn impressive.

I've done some other stuff that you'd never believe. When I was seven I levitated a crate of shipments out of water. It was like something from Star Wars, I reached out with the proverbial 'force'. Many years ago, a galaxy far, far away my arse. This was now, the year 1995.

I was pretty good at that type of stuff, telekinesis as I liked to call it. I've lived a pretty hard life, and that's been one of the only things that I enjoy doing. I won't bore you with the details of my neglected childhood, but it hasn't been all lilies and roses. There was a time when I didn't always have the knife on the inside of my cashmere coat, or the smaller pistol in the back of my pants. I don't like to think about that life much.

Looking back on it, when I was about eleven I used to get stalked by owls. That was annoying. I think after I shot the first one, the rest were too afraid to come close. The letters seemed to die down shortly after that.

I walked forward in the night sky towards the club. It was a nice place on the outside; two bouncers by the door, fine limousines dropping off some of London's top dogs, the back door for those unsavory customers. Ritzy, not like one of the trash clubs that you find downtown.

I walked towards the door with an air of confidence gained from ten years of repeated practice. The bouncers looked at me, I knew one of them but the other must have been a new guy. How'd I know? The idiot stopped me.

"Look kid, eighteen and up" he said, pointing to a small sign at the front of the line.

The other bouncer, David, held a flash of fear in his eyes. "Bob, shut your hole and move aside. I'm sorry Master Harry, he's the new guy" said David in a low, bass voice. I nodded shortly at the tall, well built bouncer. David was one of those guys you wanted next to you if you were ever in a fire-fight. Big, pretty smart, and fast with the gun concealed in his dark suede jacket.

I pushed open the golden-colored door to the setting where I had gone after most jobs. It wasn't home, but it was a medium between work and pleasure. Tall, marble pillars adorned the room, probably Roman. The floor was similarly tiled in onyx marble. The first thing that hit me however, was the low thrumming of the bass that flooded the room. A few of the younger, more rebellious crowd of London were out on the floor. Bodies mashing against each other, hot passion exuding from every pore of their body. Lights flashed from above the local disk jockey, green and neon colors dancing over the crowd.

I walked forward to the bar and caught the bartender by the eye. He caught my look of a thousand words and nodded shortly, preparing the usual. He placed the gin tonic on the table as I walked past -- I took it gladly. The smell of fresh lime emitted from the drink, fresh in a way. I took a healthy sip from the beverage and felt the smooth liquor go down my throat -- that was quality alcohol, not the crap you get at the local store.

I noted some of the local guys that my boss would associate with. Stevey Sparks, our local explosives and arson expert. He's about five and half feet tall, dark brown eyes, slightly raised cheekbones. He's not a guy you would look twice at when walking down the streets, very low-key. I recognized him from the bulge right next to his boot. That's where he kept the .357 Blackhawk.

I gave the two guards at the VIP lounge a meaningful look but neither budged. They weren't new guys, just damn suspicious of everything that came through. I didn't mind, they helped save my life more times than I could count .

With a sigh, I took out the .38 revolver in my right pocket and clicked the safety before presenting it, handle first, to one of the guards. He grunted and opened a small vault that lay behind a small table, entering a five-digit password that chimed in response. The door unlocked and he stowed my gun away. I went to move forward when he grunted again and held out a strong arm to stop me.

"Fine, fine" I muttered. I reached behind my back and took out the small pistol that was attached to my waistband. I similarly handed him the gun and he stowed it away. His eyes met mine for a long moment, as if scanning my soul to see if I had anything left.

"Stop being such a prick, Charlie" I said. A small, tight smile graced his stagnant features and he motioned for me to enter.

"You know how it is sir, I have to check everyone" said Charlie sternly. I reached up to place a hand on his shoulder and gave it a thankful squeeze.

"You do your job well, Charlie" I said. "Just remember next time to check my pockets."

He twitched slightly, "I didn't see a bulge there or anything…" he mumbled, a bewildered expression set into his face. I smiled and walked by into the lounge, leaving one stumped door guard behind. Maybe I should've told him that knives and daggers don't leave as visible bulges.

The lounge was a nice place, nicer than the outside. The music was considerably lower, soft Italian leather chairs covered the room. Some loveseats existed, some single chairs, and candles flickered all over the room. I could smell the faint traces of smoke in the area, no doubt someone was using their pipe again. Some guards were at each corner, pretending to read newspapers while their eyes watched everyone in the room. I liked to call them the Hawks.

The crowd was much more diverse; not ethnically diverse, politically so. I could see the local top officers and lieutenants of the police leaned back into their chairs, drunk and pleased with the girls straddling their waists. Some of the top and easily corruptible people from Parliament lay against the armrests of couches, intoxicated and under the influence of more than one type of drug. Some of them were being taken care of by women; none of the men ever dared to go too far in public. Not only for their image, but Vanzetti was one of those guys that respected the people that worked for him.

Their image was already destroyed anyways. Some of these guys came in for a quick drink, only to be escorted to the VIP lounge, where more potent liquors lay and beautiful women would chat them up. Women that were hand selected from some God-forsaken place where males would die upon arrival. Women with long legs, lithe bodies, pretty faces, and completely vapid. Chances were that none of them could hold a conversation long, but they had enough experience in the game to know how to twist what hips where.

I walked past the preliminary rows of drunken men and shallow women to come to where the big boys played. The back row.

It was similar to the rest of the room but structured differently. A circle of leather seats existed around a small coffee table, upon which a magnum of liquor lay and a few crystal glasses were distributed. As I said before, ritzy -- quality stuff.

My eyes met the man at the topmost side of the circle, Nicholas Vanzetti. He met them equally and I suppressed a shudder. There were some men I could stare down, and some that you couldn't pay me enough to look at. Nicholas Vanzetti was a prime example. He was tall, around six feet, with dark black hair and equally dark eyes. His expression never held any emotion, only flickers of something that was barely discernable.

"Alright boys, that's enough for tonight" said Vanzetti. "Go home, spend time with your kids and wives."

The men murmured their thanks and lifted themselves off the chairs. Some of the guys nodded their heads at me in something akin to respect and greeting. I returned their nods, eyes scanning each and every one of them. Some of these guys were pretty tough shit, the inner circle of the Vanzetti family.

I moved forward, standing just behind the chair that was opposite Vanzetti. It was always a show of respect within the family -- never introduce yourself to someone else's friends, never sit before Vanzetti does, bow when appropriate.

Vanzetti nodded shortly and motioned for me to take a seat. I did so, enjoying the feel of the soft leather chair against my back.

"Mr. Potter" he began, cold eyes traveling up and down every feature of my body.

"Mr. Vanzetti" I returned equally. I kept my gaze pinned on a spot just below his nose -- eye contact was a rude gesture, especially to your superiors.

"Son."

"Father" I said. My boss was my father, the irony was thick. The term father meant a lot of things for me, but it didn't mean "daddy." Vanzetti was my legal father, boss, superior, and employer all in one. He reached over and poured himself a drink from the magnum of amber liquid in front of him.

"I assume you did as instructed with the target?" he asked. I noticed some of the other guards in the room were moving quietly throughout the room, checking for any listeners.

"I did" I responded flatly, no emotion in my voice.

A moment of silence passed between us as Vanzetti analyzed me. He did this after every job, I think somewhere deep down he wanted to check that I was still psychologically intact.

"Are you feeling alright Harry? You look a bit tired" noted Vanzetti. Damn it.

"Just tired is all. I haven't had much sleep lately" I returned. I took another sip of my drink, letting some of the stress ebb away.

"Take a vacation, Harry. Go see Italy and relax, enjoy yourself. You've been doing a lot of work lately and it's going to start getting to you soon" advised Vanzetti, a flash of concern flickered in his eyes. That was one of those brief emotions, barely visible to anyone who didn't know him.

I smiled wryly, "You're getting soft, father. You know I don't need a vacation, just a good night's sleep -- maybe a bit of chicken soup?" His eyes narrowed at me. Had I been anyone else, I'm sure he would've shot me.

"It's more than just your weary state, Harry" said Vanzetti, his voice dropped much lower. "I think someone is targeting you."

I scowled, "Unlikely. There hasn't been an attempt on my life for years, not since the last war."

"And what do you call last month?" queried Vanzetti. The small forming wrinkles on his face hardened into a grave expression.

I reflexively reached out to cover a scar that was on my left arm, fingers tracing the faint line that was covered beneath clothing.

"A mistake."

"You don't make mistakes Harry, you're better than that" said Vanzetti. From anyone else that might've been a compliment. "That man took all of our forces by surprised -- no one saw him enter and you were lucky to get away with just a slash at your arm."

"Have you found anything on that guy yet?" I asked carefully. I watched Vanzetti's eyes meticulously -- the man was a great liar but sometimes little clues leaked through.

"No" said Vanzetti, his eyes held no lies. "It's as if the guy just disappeared off the face of the earth."

I nodded slowly. That was strange, to say the least. No one entered or left London without the Vanzetti family knowing about it. Vanzetti himself had picked up most of London in a rough gang-war back when I was about seven. Seven was a big year for me; the gang war meant my life was constantly threatened and it was around seven that my powers manifested.

"Harry" began Vanzetti, an edge of concern in his tone. "Do you think there could be others like you out there? You know…with powers?"

I raised an eyebrow. I never really thought of that possibility before. Sure, I suspected it, but could there be a whole civilization of people just like me? Were their powers greater than mine?

"I assume there would be" I said slowly. "By pure logic, if someone like me exists than there has to be at least a few others. You think that guy might've had a bit of power in him?"

Vanzetti snorted. "That man looked like a damn rat, maybe that was his power. I only ask because he appeared out of thin air, no alarms were tripped or anything" he said.

I shrugged, but it made me feel a little unnerved. I never liked dark alleyways, never have and never will. This guy was a living, breathing alleyway. He could come out of nowhere, take a few slashes at me with a knife, and disappear with equal speed.

"Take a break Harry" advised Vanzetti with a tone of finality. "Take a week to yourself and relax. Find a girl on some beach and enjoy yourself. God knows a kid like you could use it."

I scowled but realized the fruitlessness of my argument. If I kept insisting, he would just refuse to give me any tasks to do. I nodded my acceptance reluctantly.

Vanzetti's right hand slipped inside of his pocket and he took it out a roll of cash. Crisp notes that were marked by denominations, all rolled into a nice cylinder and tied in a loose rubber band. He lobbed it over to me.

"That's payment for this job, you did good" said Vanzetti. I flashed him a small grin and placed the roll of money in my left pocket.

"How's business?" I asked, eyes roaming over the variety of patrons. I doubted that these men even knew they were being video-recorded -- perfect blackmail to come out during re-election time.

Vanzetti snorted, "As good as can be expected. Some politicians have been disappearing, and none of my guys are behind it. They're calling it terrorist attacks" he said disparagingly.

I nodded slowly, that was different to say the least. There could've been a variety of reasons for that -- maybe other local gangs decided to creep in on some territory. Maybe someone was acting independently to try and rid corruption -- the modern day vigilante. Or maybe it was just as Vanzetti had said, maybe it was some terrorists going after it.

I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my drink. It was peaceful again; calm and relaxed. I had some time to myself coming up, maybe I'd go play the roll of playboy in Rome. I thought life was great, danger was out of sight and out of mind. Maybe for the rest of the night I'd hop to the back room and play some cards with some of the boys from the local families -- kids that were just a few years older than me and getting into the family business.

I think the last thing I would've expected was a bunch of black robed figures appearing in the VIP lounge, small magic rods in their hands. I don't think I would've expected seeing Charlie pull out the sub-machine gun from somewhere inside of his coat and flick off his safety in one fluid motion, or the Hawks removing semi-automatics from their coat pockets. And I really didn't think one of them would point the little rods at Vanzetti and me.

Unfortunately, it's the things we don't expect that happen the most often.


	2. Meetings of Various Sorts

Cosa Nostra

02. Meetings Of Various Sorts.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter universe, individual characters and ideals are my own.

There's something about being a murderer that makes you wonder. If the tables were turned, what would you do? I found myself wondering this same question as seven figures appeared in the VIP lounge, garbed in the blackest of robes and pale white masks upon their face.

The people in the lounge that were trained reacted with speed just under mine. Charlie's gun was halfway out, his fellow associate quickly pegging in the five digits to the weapons vault. Vanzetti had slammed his fist underneath the table, no doubt hitting the small emergency alarm that lay inside. The Hawks had their hands in their coat, withdrawing their semi-automatics with trained precision. I recognized the glint in their eyes -- loyalty and bloodlust.

Myself? I was fast. My hand was already gripping the curved dagger inside of my jacket pocket. I pushed Vanzetti down besides the couch the second his fingers pressed into the emergency button under the table.

Gunshots echoed in the room. Tens and hundreds of bullets being unloaded rapid precision -- earsplitting noises filling the airs as the smell of smoke cluttered the air. Shells riddled the floor, small metal cylinders that lay disposed and forgotten. I flicked out my left hand, channeling my pure _will_ into it. I stared at them with a pitted, furious gaze. No one came into my territory and fucked around.

I like to think I'm a big boy. I don't cry during romance movies, I don't get frightened when I'm staring down the barrel of a gun. But when you see ten full grown and trained men staring deftly at the scene unfolding in front of them, a pang of fear hits you no matter how hardened you are.

Every bullet that had fired from a gun laid suspended in air, each unable to reach their mark because of a thick, bronze orb that encompassed each and every figure inclusively. My brain stopped working for a moment as two questions plagued me.

What the fuck was this? That was question one. I had heard of some Zen monks in Tibet being able to stop a bullet from impacting their skin, or Buddhist monks being able to break metal with their bare hands. This was something else, the bullets hadn't even touched them. Their rods -- wands? -- were directed in front of them, glowing the same bronze as the shield in front of them. Their leader -- a crazed, unmasked woman with a gaunt face -- smirked maliciously and raised her wand above her head.

Question two: How the fuck did they do that? I had been right, there were more people like me. But what _was_ this? This wasn't like anything I had done before. This was far past any level of expertise that I had achieved after countless hours of labor every day. I felt my mouth go dry as my eyes watched the scene. Time seemed to slow down while the woman raised her wand, her mouth moving in an ancient branch of Latin.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _she hissed. A twisted coil of putrid green light left her wand tip and leapt towards Charlie. A sharp gust of wind followed her bolt of energy, howling inside the small lounge. Curtains shook from the magnitude of the light, candlelight flickering in the dark room.

Charlie fell dead. There was no unconsciousness or shock-induced arrest about it. I could see his eyes lose all color and purpose, his mouth opened in a pre-emptive warning shout. I had seen people die before, I had seen their eyes lose all focus and will. Charlie was no longer among the living.

The room sprung into action again. I shoved Vanzetti down behind the couch further and darted forward, dagger in one hand. I felt fury like nothing I had ever felt before. I wanted to kill them, I wanted to show them who exactly was the better trained warrior.

I rapidly upturned the coffee table, providing a temporary bastion of defense. Jets of light raced forward over the ramparts and battered against the table, leaving scorch marks the size of fists in the walls and floor.

I heard screams of the girls in the room, running out and abandoning the drunk men that lay in the chairs that would become their death beds. The fire alarm sounded somewhere within the club and masses of people began to move quickly towards the doors.

A man's voice shouted something -- a lance of crimson fire pierced through the air, scorching the very moisture in the air around me. The flames conflagrated the leather couches -- I could feel the heat licking against my face.

I dove to the side, seconds before the table I had been hiding behind burst into eerie green flames. Tumbling to the side, I raised my left hand -- palm out and fingers spread -- and felt the familiar power of my will flow through my body. I used it and all the energy around me to push my will forward -- a raw force of kinetic energy.

One of the black robed figures was blown off his feet, into the wall with a sickening crunch. I snarled and threw the dagger in my right hand, by the blade and not the hilt. A small, predatory smile of satisfaction graced my features as the blade lodged into his chest, right where his heart should lay.

I could feel my energy ebbing away faster now. The short impulses of sophisticated power was never light on the body -- it always took more than I intended when I used it.

"Leave him," said the woman with a loathing expression, eyeing the dead man. "Get me the boy."

That's when it _really_ began. We had traded one man for one, both sides were pissed. They were playing to kill, I was playing to kill and protect. I considered myself at a disadvantage.

Regardless of the situation, I smirked. Disadvantages made it worth the while.

The remaining Hawks split into action, diving behind whatever bastions they could find and reloading their guns with new ammunition. Stevey Sparks ran into the room with concern etched into his features before it changed into rapid understanding. He withdrew the .357 Blackhawk from his boot and unclipped something that I couldn't see from his belt.

I looked back over to Vanzetti's body to see the man leaned up against the couch, protected for now. He reached into his pocket and withdrew two small semi-automatics. He quickly passed one to me and I caught it deftly, unclipping the safety and holding it in my right hand.

"Now, now Muggles we only want the boy. Hand him over and none of you shall be harmed," said the woman. I risked a glance over the edge of the loveseat that I was hiding behind. Their bronze orbs still fully enveloped their bodies, leaving no signs of weakness.

"Who are you?" yelled one of the Hawks.

She let out cackling laughter. "I am the servant of the Dark Lord, foolish Muggle. A man of power beyond your comprehension. Give us the boy, and you will all live tonight," she said and licked her lips delightfully. A wolf preparing for the meal.

I looked to Vanzetti who instantly began making hand signs. I nodded shortly, he was formulating a plan way ahead of my own thought processes. He raised a finger to his lips and gripped his gun in both hands. I rubbed the condensation off my hands and onto my pants, letting out a slow breath, trying to keep quiet.

We were used to hostage situations like this, there had been attempts all through my life. It didn't matter if this weird super-woman got me or not, everyone would die.

"What is more valuable Muggles? Him? Or your life?" asked the woman again. She spoke with a seductive sophistication that must have been perfected from years of use.

I kept my breathing steady regardless of my heart rate. Remember what I said about liking disadvantages? I like a disadvantage -- maybe one against two in a fire-fight. I don't like fighting six guys with super-powers and magical wands. Wands that _work_.

"No? Very well. You should know that there's only ten chairs muggles. I'm sure it won't take too long," she said wryly. I heard a crackling of energy through the air before the couch to my side was pulled out of the air, revealing the Hawk that stood behind it.

"_Crucio,"_ she muttered, flourishing her wand. A crimson bolt of energy left the tip of her wand and impacted the man nearest me. Energy traveled through his body, coursing through every neuron that he possessed.

I had heard people scream before. I've heard dying screams, pleading screams, fearful screams, even screams of joyous surprise. I had never heard a scream of such pain and such terror in my fifteen short years of existence.

Hawks were strong men; their qualifications were extensive and they were trained to be the best, trained to keep family secrets and to die protecting Vanzetti. The Hawk next to me was reduced to a crying, sniveling man in under a second. His body rolled on the floor back and forth, slowly and slowly approaching fetal position while his eyes held complete pain and terror. She must've kept the pain on him for almost a minute until he could no longer scream.

"Nine to go," she whispered, breaking the eerie silenced that had veiled the room. I could hear her lips practically suckling the words, her tongue moving languidly around each syllable. The Hawk she had touched was trembling and weeping. A grown man like that never cries that easily.

I turned to Vanzetti and watched him with exasperation. Vanzetti is one of the strongest men I know; he was a man who could walk in front of an army and still think he had good chances. The expression he held would stay with me forever, I knew it would.

Where once a strong, proud man stood, only a weak boy remained. His face was pale and dull, almost lifeless. I could see his grip loosening on his gun, muscles relaxing throughout his body. His jaw was set half-open, tongue loosely held.

"Which one to reveal next…" she mused. A whip like crack sounded in the air before the couch next to Vanzetti was torn asunder. The leather was ripped from its sides as if cloven in two. The Hawk behind it raised his gun and took aim.

The woman flicked her wand and the gun flew out of his hand, landing a few feet away from me.

"No, no, no," she chided. "That's not playing nice at all." Her robes bristled again and I saw the man get pulled forward as if by an invisible force.

He lay upon his knees in front of her, eyes blazing in defiance. She raised her left hand to his face and trailed a fingernail down the length of his cheek. He shivered and the same convulsion ran through my own spine.

"One chance, Muggle," She spat the word. "Tell me where he is."

The Hawk bowed his head slightly, I saw the smile curving upon his lips. "Family comes first."

She snarled and violet energy pooled at her wand tip. She traced the tip across his throat as one would a dagger. The effect was the same, his head was immediately dismembered and his body was left forgotten. The woman's eyes glittered in mirth as she looked upon the destruction in front of her -- the blood that now spattered the tiles of the floor and the head that rolled away. His eyes were still open, blank with acceptance.

I caught Spark's eyes out of the corner of my vision. My gaze met his and he nodded in solemn understanding before he jutted his head towards Vanzetti. I nodded shortly; family came first. The most important person to get out of there was Vanzetti. Without him, the family would fall. A man cannot stand without his head.

"Who will be the next one, muggles? Which of you will chose life over death and tell us where the boy is," snarled the woman.

I suppressed a scowl, she was killing the Hawks off one by one for pure sport. She could've easily discovered my hiding spot but she wanted them to suffer. She _enjoyed _it.

When I killed it was just for business. Some guy that was going back on his word, some guy failing to deliver a shipment, a snitch, a thief. This woman was unstable, she killed for fun.

I looked towards Sparks again and he held a small flash grenade in his hands. My eyes widened, that would be our chance to escape. I nodded shortly and turned to Vanzetti. My father's face was set in stone, colder and harder than anything I had seen before.

I quickly rubbed my eyes with my pointer finger and thumb to clear the dryness that had accrued. Embers faintly licked the tiles around me, trying to spread its conflagration to anything that it could. My gaze slowly turned to the emergency backdoor behind where Vanzetti's chair should've been, only a few meters away from the man himself. The only problem was that there was a direct line of sight between the woman and Vanzetti.

"The next one then?" she prompted. I heard her footsteps moving around the room in slow, graceful steps. Her black robes swished with every movement, a wraith in the dark room.

I could hear her breath behind me, just over the seat of the couch. I jerked one last glance towards Sparks and he caught my understanding. He switched the flash grenade to his right hand and held it at the ready. I nodded and tightened my grip on the gun that was in my hand.

"Let's see who's here," said the woman slowly, meticulously, a faint childish tone in her voice.

I heard the fabric rustle before I moved. I darted out into the open, my gun readied while Sparks got out from behind his seat. Several of the remaining Hawks caught the plan and jumped up, guns in their hands that were poised and ready.

The flash grenade that was in Sparks' hand arched through the air while my gaze met the woman's. Her eyes widened slowly before her lips settled into a small smirk. I think one part of her liked seeing me as I was, a gun raised and poised to kill. She lived for the rush, just as I did.

I slammed down on the trigger three times. Three subsequent bullets flew through the air while the grenade came closer still. I could see the rivets on my bullets as they left my gun, traveling through the air towards her chest.

Her eyes grew in anticipation before she moved faster than anything I had seen before. Her wand was up before my finger had pulled down on the trigger. By the time I had unloaded the first bullet the bronze orb enclosed her once again. Bullets met her bubble of protection and paused against it, losing all momentum before clattering to the floor.

My eyes found the flash grenade to see it moving slowly through the air, as if traversing through a viscid fluid. She simply raised her wand and flicked it again -- the grenade went off. Her eyes weren't facing it however, mine were.

When magnesium strips are ignited, the heat causes a drastic chemical reaction to take place. The result is a disturbing amount of pure light that can cause temporary, and sometimes even permanent, blindness. I rolled to the side and attempted to shield my eyes from the overwhelming light. The grenade exploded before I had the chance, wiping out my vision alongside it.

My head throbbed and my ears rung from the short detonation of the flash grenade. I could hear the screams of those around me and the rapid rustling a fabric from not only the woman, but from the troupe that lay behind her. The gunshots around the room felt suppressed and blocked by a thick sheet of lead.

I ducked into a corner and covered my head, moving to the image of the lounge as I remembered it. I closed my eyes tight and tried to will my vision to return to itself. I felt the flow of power through my veins as it traveled through my body and into my eyes.

My vision began to clear, slowly at first and then more rapidly. I blinked furiously and rubbed at them viciously to expedite the process. I achieved a hazy semblance of vision that would be enough to get the job done.

I glanced around the rubble of the room, and what appeared was more than surprising. Every Hawk was down, Vanzetti was nowhere to be seen, and yet battle still went on.

The black-robed figures now were locked in pitted fights with crimson-robed figures. Their eyes stayed sealed on each other, bursts of light spitting forward from each of their wand tips at amazing speeds. I heard some Latin phrases being yelled back and forth, especially between some strange, scarred man with a fake eyeball and the woman that had been standing over me.

My eyes scanned the room and landed on Vanzetti, sprawled on the floor only a few feet from the exit. He had a nasty laceration across his hamstring, an inch wide and half a foot in length.

I stood up and swiftly moved across the room, stealth was no longer an option. The windows shattered around me as particular potent jets of lights collided in midair, dissipating in shimmering sparks of power. I saw Sparks' dead body on the floor and swept up his gun , pulling the hammer back. Conflicting lights illuminated my face, shades of crimson, violet, and green rushing behind me.

"Get out of here," I growled to Vanzetti. He stared up at me as if I was his guardian angel and nodded shortly, trying to hobble towards the emergency escape.

"Don't let them escape!" roared one of the dark robed figures over the crackle of electricity in the air. I cocked my head towards the direction of the voice and found myself staring down a jet of crimson light.

The next thing I knew was pain. A lot of it. My body was on fire, thousands of hot knives pressing into my skin and peeling away every ounce of flesh that I possessed. I couldn't breathe; my lungs constricted and the only noise that came from my throat were screams. My eyes watered; something inside of me wanted to break down and just let go --

The pain lifted after a few terse seconds, leaving me gasping for air and cringing from the sore nerves that now racked my body. I looked back at my target to see him on the floor, arms and legs bound together, unable to move.

I raised my gun.

This time there was no shield to protect him, no woman to save him. The bullet flew true through the air and pierced his skull. Gray matter erupted out of the other side of his head.

I'm glad we decided not to carpet the lounge.

"Rabastan!" yelled another man. I flicked my gun back to him and pulled back on the hammer again, aiming it at his heart.

_His_ gaze was as furious as mine. Maybe that had been a relative of his? Good riddance. He snarled and raised his wand towards me as I took aim at his head.

There was one thing that I learned in the short span of a few minutes. The black robed imitation of an old white supremacy movement couldn't make a bronze orb and shoot a green light at the same time. I knew that the green light meant dead, not go. I saw the words of his green light-thing form on his lips, his nostrils flared as he did so. The same putrid light gathered at the tip of his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra,"_ he snarled. The coil of green energy snaked through the air while my bullet left my gun. Let's get a few things straight right here, I don't miss.

My bullet made contact just as the jet of green energy left the tip of his wand. The light slithered toward me in a serpentine fashion, moving far faster than I could readjust my weight and move out of the way. I deftly felt the recoil of the gun in my hand; this was the end.

At least I went down swinging.

I closed my eyes and prepared for the inevitable. Maybe there would be a nice tunnel of light at the end. Maybe I should start praying like all those other guys did, I might just go to Heaven. I could hear the roaring of wind accompanied with the light as it streaked towards me. Maybe there was a tunnel after all.

What the hell, I'll stare death in the eyes.

I opened both of my eyes and watched the green light make its finishing home-stretch. I was standing stock still and knew that there wasn't nearly enough time to act. A large mass of a body jumped in front of me -- I recognized that dark hair more than anything else.

Vanzetti.

The bolt of light made contact with the man's back. The life passed from his eyes at a point blank range, his features still contorted in warning and defiance. The righteous fury and desire for control in his eyes slowly glazed away. Vanzetti was a man of pride and power, one who sought to keep order in a world of chaos by his own fist. He had made me what I was, he had raised me from just another kid on the block to one of the toughest people that roamed the streets of London.

My Capo di tutti Capi, my Don, my Father.

So naturally, I was pissed.

The man I had shot was still alive, my bullet had only hit the shoulder of his left arm. I walked through the blazing inferno around me, fire licking the furniture and the remnants of battle around me. The woman had disappeared as quickly as she came, as did her remaining troupe. The crimson robed figures were tending to their wounded, some of them debating how to approach me.

The man in front of me chuckled in a low voice. "You don't have it in you to kill me," he rasped. "You got lucky with the other two but you're the good boy, you can't touch me."

The dying words of men were always the best to hear.

I cocked back the hammer for what felt like the twentieth time that night -- it probably was.

"That's where you made your mistake," I whispered, softly enough for my voice to be heard over the crackling embers. "You think I'm a good boy."

I aimed for just below his waist and pulled the trigger, enjoying the sharp scream that elicited from his mouth. His scream slowly died down into a string of swear words and labored breathing. His eyes held fear now, not cocky arrogance.

"You can't do this!" he hissed. His eyes roamed around to the other robed figures in the rooms. I guessed they were his enemies and obviously didn't want to kill me.

I pulled back the hammer again.

"You see, that's where you're wrong. You think that I care about the law," I said softly. I raised my gun to his forehead and tapped between his eyes three times.

"Harry," said another voice. I turned around slowly to see an old man stepping into the scene. He was garbed in soft blue robes strangely adorned with a variety of cosmic symbols. Constellations, stars, patterns of astrology. The lines of age were evident upon his face, yet his posture still remained strong and confident.

"Don't do this," he said softly. For a moment I debated killing him as well, but that probably wouldn't have been the best idea.

I forced a smile onto my face.

"I like how you think I care what you say," I said dryly. My finger tensed on the trigger.

"Harry, please," implored the old man, moving closer to me. "Your parents wouldn't have wanted you to do this."

I faltered for a moment. Parents? Those were people I hadn't heard anything about in a long, long time. James and Lily Potter, killed in a car accident. I was the only known survivor and their only gift was a jagged scar that marked my forehead.

I threw him a cold gaze and returned to my work regarding the man standing in front of me. His eyes held that arrogance that it did before -- he didn't think he would die.

I was always one to change the outcome of what people thought.

The shell clacked to the floor and the man's body fell to the ground. I heard a sharp gasp from one of the other people there, a hand quickly raised to cover her mouth. For good measure, I emptied the last remaining three shots of my gun into his chest. His body convulsed at each shot but that didn't satisfy me. I wanted more, I wanted to kill him even in death.

"Harry," said the old man again. His tone was stern and no longer as soft as it was before. "Stop."

And for some reason, I did. I didn't want to but I suddenly felt very tired, drowsy, and _weak_ -- as if a lead weight had just been placed over my body. My shoulders slumped and the nauseating smell of burning, dead bodies hit me in full force. My eyes swept over the room, tallying the dead officials and men that had stood by me for so long.

There are times in life when even the strongest man wants to cry, and times when the weeping man must learn to keep moving forward. This was one of the latter.

I raised myself into a standing position and took a steadying breath. Things had to keep moving forward, this wasn't a time to sit back and ride out the storm. I placed Sparks' gun inside my coat pocket and ran a hand through my hair. This wasn't going to end well.

Not only were there at least fifteen other special people out there, but they had all circled around me. I've never claimed to be a genius, but I'd like to think I'm smart. I was a key player in something, and I _really_ liked having all the pieces before I started completing the puzzle.

I turned around and for the first time noted that there others still in the room. The man with the fake eyeball was standing by the door, the eyeball moving rapidly around the room. A small, pink haired woman was a few feet away from him, her wand traveling up and down the lengths of her shin with a soft orange light at the tip. A tall dark man stood next to the old man, both conversing quietly with one another. A few other figures were distributed throughout the room, all of various shapes and sizes.

Half of me wanted to escape and go find one of the other family members and do _something_. The other, more rational, half of me wanted to stay and try to make heads or tails out of what just happened. I found a medium, leaning against the wall and letting my fate play itself out.

The fires of the room were now extinguished and the club had been vacated. It was late at night; the rest of the city was shut away in deafening silence. The only sounds I could hear were the soft murmurs of the other people in the room, and the throbbing headache that never wanted to disappear.

"Hello Harry," said the old man soberly. I flicked my eyes up and met his blue eyes, bespectacled by half-moon glasses. A long silver beard trailed down his face, neatly tied at the bottom with a small ribbon. He held himself with a veiled yet powerful strength. Vanzetti used to do the same.

I didn't respond at first. Not for lack of topics, but simply because I didn't know his name.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the old man supplied. _Ah._ "Those you see around you are my associates, the Order of the Phoenix. The black robed figures you saw earlier are what we call Death Eaters."

Great. Answers.

"And what are you exactly? You're not human, I'm obviously not human, and _they're_ not human," I noted, eyes surveying each member of the room.

Dumbledore smiled half-heartedly. "I daresay we are quite human, just not of the normal kind. Some of us are wizards and some are witches. You, are a wizard," said Dumbledore.

I raised an eyebrow in piqued interest. I guess it wasn't that much of a long shot though; there had been magic wands during the fight that had ensued, people had died to 'spells', and even I had used a 'spell'.

"Assuming I believe you," I began, Dumbledore nodded slowly and gestured for me to continue, "why am I targeted? And better yet, how did any of you find me?"

"All worthy questions," said Dumbledore. "But first, I believe your safety should be our primary issue. There are more people where they came from, few of which will offer you aid."

I eyed him carefully. That was a line I'd used several times in winning over some politicians. 'I'll save you, just do what I want' type of line.

"And I should trust you, why?" I asked. My hand slipped into my pocket and I deftly fingered my gun. Dumbledore seemed completely unperturbed.

"You have no reason to trust me, Harry, but you have my word that no one here will harm you. Several of us knew your parents, they were wizards as well," said the old man. Suddenly there was a great desire to know more.

I inclined my head shortly. "There are things that I need to take care off quickly before anything else happens. Business things," I said.

Yeah. Business. Like which of Vanzetti's brothers would take over the family. In all technicalities, I was now the leader of Vanzetti's group because I was his legal son. Some things I just didn't feel I was ready for. Leading an upstanding criminal family was one of them.

Dumbledore frowned. "Every moment you stay in the open there's an increasing chance of danger, Harry. I implore you to come with us, we can keep you safe while I can help you learn about the changing world around you."

The offer sounded good, I'll admit.

I shook my head. "I have to get going. Call me tomorrow and we can arrange a meeting." I pulled out a card from inside my jacket pocket and handed it to the old man before beginning to move away.

Maybe I should've stayed and learned what the old man had to tell me. It probably would've been better for me in the long run but I had more important things to do. Order had to be kept, London would fall into another war if it wasn't. My personal gains could be put on hold for a little while.

The old man sighed wearily. "Very well, Harry. I will contact you tomorrow." He began to walk away with some of his associates behind him, still fingering my contact card.

"I know you'll be at Vanzetti's house tonight. Stay there if you want, but don't get in my way" I warned. I swore I saw a small twinkle in the man's ocean-blue eyes. He simply smiled and kept walking.

I sighed and walked over to Vanzetti's body, standing over it. His eyes were still wide open.

I closed them.

* * *

Take a moment to review. It costs nothing, and motivates continuation.

Chapters will most likely pick up in length from here onwards, averaging around 7000 words. _Should_ be updated about once every week to two weeks, bearing in mind the stresses of real life.


	3. An Empire Lost

**Cosa Nostra**

03b. An Empire, Lost.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for ideas and independent characters. The rest belongs to their respective authors, notably J.K. Rowling for her ideas and works in the Harry Potter series.

I pushed open the two large, white oak doors to the main dining hallway of the mansion and grimaced with nostalgia. It was a room of refined taste, with a singular long white table running a sizable portion of the room. A fine chandelier hung above the table, its crystals reflecting a spectrum of colors over the white tablecloths and walls. Each table setting was manufactured with identical precision; a fine, ceramic plate with identical silver utensils and crystalline goblets. Candles were placed between each setting, for more of the couth, nighttime meetings.

The table housed every influential figure in the Vanzetti family. Vanzetti used to sit at the head, I sat by his right side while his closest brother sat on his left. After the initial triumvirate of power, the table would position itself in order of receding power -- going from brothers, to cousins, to more and more distant relations.

The oldest son of each family was expected to sit behind his father, observing the mannerisms so that he too, would one day take his father's place in the family. Wives of men varied in their location -- some of the more influential wives sat next to their husbands, but the majority of them resided in the adjoining room where the children would stay. Children that ranged from newborn age to the precipice of adulthood, all of them were considered babies in the family's eyes.

All except for me.

Maybe that's what made this so hard to do. I had built this empire, alongside Vanzetti from my inception into its fold back in 1985. My blood and sweat went into every brick, and now some group of magical anomalies were breaking my ten years of toil. The unity that the Vanzetti family had proclaimed on the streets and penthouses of London would fall.

And it would fall, not because of the superior intellect or capability of the opposition, but simply because the opposition had black robes and little wands. They could infiltrate any base, kill any leader. We were weak and outclassed in spades.

I moved around the table slowly, pensively. My next course of action would define where the family went. I don't think it's fair to sacrifice an army against an enemy that they have no chances of defeating. Let's admit it, I got lucky. The family would begin to decay, brothers would quarrel for leadership and ultimately, there would be nothing left for me to recover when these wizards were done with me.

Without Vanzetti, our leader was gone.

I walked forward and traced the outline of the head's chair with the barest of fingertips. I didn't love my father, I don't do big-time emotions like that. But it's like an army losing it's king, you feel the loss even if you were only a foot soldier. The fabric of the chair was soft and I imagined the illusion of him sitting in the chair as he had only a fortnight ago. His back rigid and composed, only the faintest flecks of gray showing in his dark hair. For him the gray was never a weakening factor, it defined him as the man he was.

"Excuse me, Master Harry, the guests are arriving" spoke a soft, old voice from my left.

I turned my head slowly to see Williams, the resident butler to the Vanzetti household. He was a tall, aging man with gray hair that was well kempt and a closely trimmed moustache. The wrinkles upon his face were becoming more pronounced -- much more pronounced than those he held when he would chase me around the house as he had in my youth.

I was rebellious, it wasn't my fault the house had shiny things. Was it?

"Thank you, Williams. Send them in directly," I said monotonously. Williams gave a short bow before departing, leaving me alone in the room once again.

Black sedans pulled up to the house, each unloading men, women, and often several small children. The children seemed carefree of the world around them while the parents held grave expressions. I watched them carefully before moving back to the head of the table and pulling the seat out slowly. My mind strained to remember how exactly Vanzetti did his job, just how he held himself and exactly what he said for every situation.

People flooded into the room through the adjoining foyer, some of them gave me solemn expressions before they sat, others were confused to see me at the head of the table. Once the room was filled with its various members I stood, they all followed suit. I made the motion relaxed and confident, as if it was but a second nature to myself.

I gave the party a sweeping glance and slowly sat down. The others echoed my actions, as did the scrapping of chairs against the hard, wooden floor.

I could feel the soft material of the chair around me and I suddenly felt as if I had been placed in a position of power. The seat was just that, a chair comprised of four pegs and loaded with enough cotton to kill a small child but it was more, a symbol of power. I had accepted a responsibility.

I was the leader now.

A leader is one who can unify his people under one goal, who is strong enough to know when to fight and kind enough to know when to save his people.

I'll let you figure out which one this was.

"How's business?" I asked the table, my tone calm and focused. A murmur of assent met my words, the most loyal members of their family inclining their heads to me in a subservient fashion.

"What happened to the boss?" asked one of the younger members softly. My eyes swiveled to meet the voice: a young, shaggy haired individual that sat almost half a table away from me. He flinched.

A silence gripped the table, heads turning to me with various expressions; some were curious, others were mournful. News traveled fast in the Vanzetti family, I expected people knew of his death within an hour.

"Nicolas Vanzetti was killed last night," I said with only the barest hints of emotion. "He was assassinated at his club, a crossfire that was unexplained and unavoidable."

Murmurs broke out among the table for a brief second -- muttering of brief condolences or threatening plans of vengeance. Some of the more aggressive men gripped the edges of the white tablecloth, their knuckles turning white under the pressure.

"We should whack the sonofabitch that did this!" shouted one of the members of the table, slamming his fist down onto the table. Plates and cutlery rattled, the young man's eyes burning with vengeance.

The edges of my lips twitched in amusement.

"He's been taken care of," I responded coolly. "He went for a swim with the fishes last night."

The younger man flushed lightly and returned his gaze downwards, content to stare at the serviette placed on his plate before him.

"This is getting out of hand. People are trying to push into our ground, like that rat faced guy from a month ago," said one of Vanzetti's nephews, Thomas, disparagingly. "Almost clipped you, they're getting better every time."

"Rat faced? You mean that old wrenchman?" asked a new voice, brow furrowed as he struggled for a name. "Richie McGee? Stout fellow, bit big teeth, wisps of hair?"

My eyes narrowed at the new voice, a mid-aged man with dark, black hair only a few seats away from myself. He was an uncommon figure, only attending a few family meetings. I didn't even know his name.

"I hope you do not mean to tell me that two members of this family have been attacked due to your reticence," I said softly, with the malice of a thousand swords. He quailed in his seat, eyes frantically searching around the room.

There is a reason I am -- was -- Vanzetti's son. I inherited the better half of his traits.

He nodded slowly, gingerly. "I - I didn't know, honest. No one ever told me nothing, just that you were attacked by some guy. I swear," said the man quickly, his eyes wide with fright. He twisted his hands in his lap, showing all the signs of bona fide anxiety.

"I believe you," I said kindly. "If you would be so kind to elaborate, your presence might be useful."

"Ye-yeah, of course," he stuttered, pulling nervously at his white collar. "Rich was a new guy, offered some information on other gangs for a few months last year and then joined up. Low time guy, went missing two months ago -- we thought he was iced or something."

_Ah_.

For months they had known where we were. Where Vanzetti would frequently local, who he trusted and who he didn't, how he played his game and how I played mine. Effectively, they knew where to get to me, how to get me, and had the guile to execute their plans with equal efficiency.

They had touched the family -- tainted it. If there was one spy among my ranks, how many more would there be? Call me paranoid, but how many of the people sitting at this table were truly my allies?

I nodded slowly and allowed the member of the family to be relieved of my gaze. He sagged in his seat, taking shallow breaths of relief. Reflexively, my hand reached underneath my table as I "scratched" my leg. In reality, I had relocated the revolver underneath my pant leg to my side pocket.

A moment of silence ensued as several of the waiters brought in the catered food, all in shining metal platters and set them down at various points over the table. Goblets were refilled and wine was poured into a second pair of glasses; heads turned to me in expectation as I raised a small wine-filled glass.

"In the memory of Nicholas Vanzetti. May the future generations find good health and prosperity," I intoned, recalling Vanzetti's old luncheon toast. A murmur of agreement spread before everyone drank to their health. I let the liquid touch my lips but didn't take a sip.

Call it excessive caution but after having my life threatened, I don't like to risk poison.

Forks and knives competed with platters for a few moments while I looked over the people in front of me. I needed a regent, someone who I could trust to lead capably in my absence. My eyes fell on the one person I felt I could trust, over and above all others.

Bobby Vanzetti.

Bobby Vanzetti, younger brother to Nicholas Vanzetti, was a man who rivaled his brother in almost every feature. Dark hair, piercing eyes with a slightly smaller frame than Nicholas. Small flecks of graying hair were appearing on the tips of his trimmed beard and the sides of his loosely cut hair. Bobby was warmer than Vanzetti had been -- he was more of a family man; less experienced as a leader but still the Don of his own branch of the family. He was a man who could rule with a strong fist if needed, but he preferred to live in a time of peace.

The consigliore of Nicolas Vanzetti -- a man who I had worked with my entire life. I almost trusted him with my life, and that was just about as far as I went in respect. I don't trust anyone with my life, except for maybe myself.

But even that's debatable.

I raised a small fork and lightly rapped it against my glass, the tinkling sound echoing clearly over chatter. All movement stopped with precision, eyes turning to me in expectation.

"As of later today, I will be undertaking one last assignment given to me by Nicolas. I do not how long I will be gone, but I will be back within a year" I lied smoothly. I hoped this would take a year -- after all, there didn't seem to be many of them to go around.

A murmur rolled through the crowd, some curious remarks and a few snorts by the younger, less enthused members of the family. It was the young ones, the Young Turks, that I worried about. Kids that were rambunctious and incapable of leading, but cocky enough to try to make a push for it.

And by all rights, it was a prime time to do so. The family was temporarily weakened, power could be supplanted if the proper courses were taken. Lucky for me, none of these kids were smart.

"Who's gonna be the new Boss then?" asked one of the Young Turks. Predictable.

"I am leaving the full responsibilities to Bobby Vanzetti until I return. He will act as my regent, I expect him to have the same respect you showed to Nicolas and myself," I said slowly, powerfully. A murmur of assent moved through the crowd.

All except for one.

"Why don't we get some new blood? Even when the Boss was alive we started to lose ground!" called a voice. I couldn't help but chuckle at the inexperienced.

"If you led the family, Matthew, what would you do?" I questioned softly. The most recent made man, Matthew, looked startled for a second before he puffed out his chest a bit.

"Well, I'd definitely regain territory that we've lost. Same way the Boss did it, beat down the opposition," he said rambunctiously. My lips tugged up at the corners, an amused smile.

"And that is why you will never succeed," I responded without malice. "You don't know the world, kid. Learn before you try to lead."

The kid comment got to him; it always got to the new guys. He frowned and furrowed his brow before bowing his head. I inclined my head in a minor concession -- he had taken defeat well.

I took a sweeping glance over the party in front of me. The Vanzetti family, the closest people to me in my fifteen short years of existence. People that I could trust, perhaps not with my own life, but with other tasks. And for now, my business was concluded with them. The family would wait for me; they had shown their loyalty today.

And that's all that I needed to reassure me.

"The funeral of Nicolas Vanzetti will be held after lunch. Please, do enjoy," I said, gesturing to the assortment of foods in front of me.

I mulled over my decision, I had done what a true leader would do. I had kept the family out of this, putting myself in a foreign location to keep them safe. I would come back, I knew I would -- when I did, I would be stronger. I would be ready to lead, ready to win.

As plates clattered with the overture of metal, my eyes found themselves staring blankly outside. How fitting, it was a cloudy day when Vanzetti found me, and it would be a cloudy day when he was given back to the earth.

- - -

The funeral for Nicholas Vanzetti was a quiet affair, family only. Thick raindrops poured down over the crowd while some of Vanzetti's closer family members stood to give their eulogies. The rain matted my hair, forcing it to fall stick to my head in small, flat formation. Thunder boomed in the distance, vague lightning bolts piercing through the sky at random intervals.

I could smell the faint dew hanging in the air from the morning and could taste the moisture of the air on my lips. Swift wind pushed against my face, my jacket billowing in response; the wind howled through the small trees that existed in the backyard of the Vanzetti family mansion. A portly priest stood upon a pedestal and overlooked the casket that held the late Nicholas Vanzetti. His words filled the air, but they were barely discernable amongst the savage torrent of wind.

"Nicholas was always a friendly, ambitious man who sought to carry out his goals," said the priest with the faintest trace of emotion in his voice.

I walked forward, slowly passing through the rows of garden chairs that had been aligned for the event. The black garbed crowd didn't notice me moving down the side aisles, they were far too enraptured by the words of the priest.

"He was a man who put family and friends above all else, doing whatever he could to protect them."

I watched from a distance as they began to lift the casket off the ground and lower it into the six-foot hole. Six feet underneath earth, dirt, rocks and next to where his wife lay. Her tombstone was marked with the usual, I remembered her well. Alice Vanzetti was someone who had been close to me, a woman who was warm and caring in every aspect. She respected the business, played her role dutifully, and of course, prayed for Nicolas' and my own soul every night.

"He will be missed."

The casket was lowered into the wet dirt, water cascading into the grave down the short slopes. I walked the last few steps and stood over it, on the right side of Bobby Vanzetti. The wooden casket was ornate, with a deep oak shade finished with traces of silver. Some of Vanzetti's mistresses stood huddled together near one side of the grave, handkerchiefs dabbing their eyes incessantly.

I looked down at the grave and took a single rose from inside my coat pocket and dropped it on top of the casket. Bobby similarly withdrew his own and let it drop into the hole, just to the right of my own. Gravediggers began to cover the casket rapidly, flecks of dirt flying through the air before the ground became too muddy.

"He loved you," said Bobby softly.

The younger Vanzetti brother held a serious, piercing expression as the casket was slowly covered with mounds of dirt, the bleeding red of the flowers slowly disappearing underneath earth.

I said nothing. I wasn't sure what to say; it was possible that he loved me but we were never father and son. There were never any trips to the local amusement parks or to the circus, with Vanzetti it was all business and family. I was expected to learn from him, to become stronger and move through the family ranks to one day lead the family.

"He may have not shown it often, but he would always talk about how proud he was of you."

I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked down at the grave apathetically.

Bobby placed a hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly, "Good luck kid. I'll hold the spot until you're ready."

He departed shortly after, leaving me staring at the covered grave by myself. I mulled over my thoughts, what I would do next, and how I would live the rest of my life.

For the first time in my life, I felt a little empty; without purpose. I was always used to following Vanzetti, moving in his very footsteps since I had joined up. Now, I had to act on my own and make my own decisions to move onwards in life.

I withdrew the semi-automatic that Vanzetti had passed me the night before and made sure the ammunition was secured. I tossed the gun into the mound of dirt, much to the surprise of the gravediggers and watched it blankly.

"For the demons that we'll both fight in hell," I said softly.

I turned away with a flourish of my coat walked through the thick raindrops that fell against the backyard's pavilion. I could feel rainwater seeping through my clothing; taste it mixing with sweat as it cascaded into my mouth. I vaguely registered seeing some of the robed people -- the Order of the Phoenix was it? -- trailing behind me at a reasonable pace.

My feet led me back into the house and into the closest study. A room of plain design, garbed with soft rugs and oak floor. A roaring fireplace was carved into one of the walls, its flame burning brightly and wood crackling pleasantly. A soft, burgundy fabric couch lay behind the fireplace, two singular chairs on each side. I stood in front of the fire and let the warmth envelop me while several other figures entered the same room behind me.

"Hello, Harry" said the old man peacefully, Dumbledore. He had the good will to wear black for the occasion, yet golden keys and swirls adorned his robes magnificently. He stepped forward so that he was standing within range of the hearth -- I noticed his robes were dry.

"Mr. Dumbledore," I returned equally. My eyes were locked with the dancing flames as they licked the lumber, scorching the blackened embers.

The old man took a few steps closer to me, so that he was standing next to the fire. His beard hung loosely from his chin, trailing halfway down his chest before it was tied off with a small ribbon.

"I do hope you are prepared to answer some questions?" I stated more than asked.

"I believe you are owed that extravagance. Ask any question and I will answer it to the best of my ability," said Dumbledore calmly, rubbing his gnarled hands in front of the fire.

"Then the first question is perhaps the most obvious: Why were Vanzetti and I attacked?" I asked, rotating my head to watch the wizard next to me.

"Perhaps the most obvious, but quite complex. We should begin, quite spectacularly where all things start, the beginning," said Dumbledore, a slight inflection in his tone. "You are the son of --"

"Lily and James Potter. I am aware of this fact, Mr. Dumbledore," I said with a note of disparagement. The old man's features were unfazed, simply inclining his head in short concession.

"Indeed. What you do not know however, is that your parents were both quite magical. Both were avid combatants against the forces of Voldemort during the First War. They were killed by Voldemort himself, yet when he turned his wand upon you, he was defeated," said Dumbledore gently, as if speaking to a child.

I raised an eyebrow, "And you think I'm responsible for defeating your Voldemort?" I queried.

Dumbledore smiled and inclined his head indulgently.

"I'm not the only individual who shares this theory. There are thousands of others who do as well. In our world, you are known as the Boy-Who-Lived, for you lived the encounter with Voldemort all those fifteen years ago, defeating him in the process," he said softly. "The scar upon your forehead is the marker that is a remnant of your confrontation."

I deftly raised a finger to trace the marking on my forehead, jagged in nature and reminiscent of a lightning bolt. It stung lightly, or was it more of a burning sensation?

"So it was revenge?" I asked. Vengeance was tricky to deal with. It meant the man was determined to get my life, willing to go to any lengths to do so, and possessed the skill to get damn close; and he had gotten close _twice_.

"Inexplicably so," said Dumbledore with a slight frown, "He is, unfortunately, after your life. As you can see, your safety is very important to the world. Come with me Harry, we can grant you safety."

I walked forward, fingers lightly tracing the sculpting that had been carved into the fine stone of the mantle. I said nothing for a moment, pensive in thought.

"Safety is an interesting term, Mr. Dumbledore. For some, safety means hiding in a cave until the rain has ended. For others, it is a sanctuary where life can begin anew," I said softly. The wizened man inclined his head in thought.

"The cave or the sanctuary can be what one chooses to make of it. A man may journey into the cave and become blind, but only then can he truly see. My offer is a school, Harry, an institution of learning for those of magical ability," said Dumbledore sagely, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

A school, a rather interesting proposition.

I hadn't expected that, not by a long shot. It was infinitely better than being locked away in a high-security safe house until the war had passed. A school would provide something more; it would educate me on the intricacies of the wizard-world, allow me to hone my abilities. Who knows what would happen inside? I might just find the valuable resources to strengthen my own empire.

"So why protect me?" I asked. "There must be many that are targeted under the reign of Voldemort."

The old man stroked his silver beard slowly, glancing into the fire in front of us. He was silent for a moment, mulling over thoughts until he turned back to me with an expression of a man who is truly at peace with himself. A man who can go to sleep knowing that he did the right thing.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that serenity doesn't exist.

"Your case is unusual" he admitted slowly. "The first being your age, you are still applicable for schooling within our fine institution. Your parents were also close friends of mine. I must admit, I would dearly like to see a young Potter roam the halls of Hogwarts again." His eyes became distant in reminiscence for a moment, a small smile creeping into the wrinkles of his face.

I nodded slowl; it was a surprisingly good and seemingly innocuous offer. I would be kept safe, in a prime position to learn what I needed to learn. My life would be protected, and eventually the threat between worlds would subside. What could possibly go wrong?

"And what of war? Is this war as terrible as you make it sound?" I asked. "What makes him impossible to be stopped?"

A flicker of _something_ flashed in Dumbledore eyes. Not yet surprise, but more of a piqued interest in my tone. He lifted the tip of his half-moon spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in.

"Voldemort is a man of many mysteries, Harry. He wishes to become all-powerful as many of this world do; to become immortal. He wants his reign of power to last forever, to spread to the deepest and darkest corners of the world" said Dumbledore, his right hand forming a clutching gesture.

"So he fights for domination? There has to be more than just that," I responded. I motioned for the old man to take a seat upon the two chairs that rested near the fire. He did so with a thankful incline of his head.

"His true motivations are veiled. From my own knowledge, I believe he wishes to rule the world as he sees fit. He wishes for wizards to reign supreme over muggles and to keep those with the purest of blood and lineage at the peak" said Dumbledore, eyes gleaming in the light that came from the fires.

"A muggle?" I asked, perplexed.

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, "A muggle is another name for a non-magical individual. There are pure bloods, who are born of wizard and witch; Half-bloods who are born of wizard and muggle; Squibs, which are non-magical children of Wizarding parents; or muggle-born children, who are magical children born to muggle parents"

I nodded languidly, "So what am I? A pure-blood?" I queried.

"A half-blood," corrected Dumbledore. "Your father was a pure blooded wizard, but your mother was a muggle-born witch. She was one of the finest of her generation, young Lily Evans."

"Interesting," I muttered to myself more than Dumbledore. "Have there been many battles between the armies of the Wizarding government and Voldemort's forces?"

I felt the lines fall into place between the dots. The missing politicians? They must have been Voldemort's targets. He was slowly deteriorating London from both the magical and non-magical sides. I had heard of terrorist attacks all over the nation, but I had assumed that they were nothing more than that. This war went far deeper than I had originally thought, far past the pretenses of local gangs encroaching on territory.

The wrinkles on Dumbledore's face became more defined, "There has not been any…substantial proof of his return. He was resurrected using many of the darker forms of magic, and our only knowledge that he has returned is the progressive attacks and some of the Order's own confidentialities" he said carefully.

Some half of me felt a tinge of respect for this Voldemort. Had it not been for his desire for revenge, we might've shared some good tea-time discussions. He was cunning and knew just how to take down the power in the world. He played both sides of the coin, the normal world and the wizard world.

"And so the antagonist possesses guile," I remarked dryly. "What is your plan, Mr. Dumbledore? Will you sit back or will you defeat the enemy before he grows too powerful?"

Dumbledore's face was a resolute mask. His mouth was open, poised to reply.

At that moment, the lightly burning fire within the fire place roared to a new high, flames licking the edges of the mantel. The flames flickered into an eerie green, a color that I had never seen from a natural flame before. A small head appeared within the flame, as if suspended from the top of the mantel itself.

"He's coming, five minutes," hissed the voice. I made out a shape of a crooked nose and beady black eyes before the elegant emerald flames disappeared, leaving the roaring natural orange of fire.

The other members of the room were immediately on point, moving rapidly towards the windows to watch the conditions outside. My eyes flicked over to the far window, one that was thinly veiled by gossamer curtains. A looming blackness lingered on the horizon, unlike any storm or cloud I had seen before. A black smog that moved forward through the clouds without any signs of deterring.

"Less than five. Three," muttered Tonks, the pink haired witch watching the shadows tear through the sky.

I felt the temperature in the house drop by several degrees, the looming scent of death coming from the slits in the windows. Waves of sorrow flowed through me, faint whispers of memories that I had forgotten over time came back to lurk on the edge of consciousness.

"_No! Please, I have children!"_

"_I didn't mean to! I swear!"_

I turned to Dumbledore to see the old man serenely gazing outside. He withdrew a pale, elegant wand from the depths of his robes and raised it to the air, over his head. A luminescent white orb formed at the tip, almost blinding my eyes.

The orb pulsed, and a wave of silver light spread over the house, emanating from every pore of air around me. I felt lifted, motivated to continue as the light washed over me. The air thrummed with an elegant song, a light trill that sounded from the depths of another room.

Dumbledore turned to me, "Come Harry, our conversation must be temporarily postponed. We will be under assault very shortly, we must move to a safer location," he said. He sounded unaffected, as if this was another walk in the park.

"What are those?" I asked, my interest piqued.

"Dementors," provided Dumbledore, standing, "They are some of the darkest and foulest creatures in the Wizarding world. I hope our dissertation on them can perhaps be delayed for a few moments?"

"Your escape plan, Mr. Dumbledore?" I asked curiously. The old man's eyes merely twinkled as he reached into the seemingly endless supply of tools inside of his robes to remove a small pouch.

Dumbledore reached inside of the bag and withdrew a small handful of what seemed to be finely crushed rocks -- a light powder. He held it in the center of his palm before gently tossing it into the conflagration. The flames turned a similar shade of green and roared even higher, threatening to spill out of the fireplace.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," whispered Dumbledore clearly. The flames billowed powerfully before settling down again to a reasonable level of fire, surprisingly high for the lack of any cohesive logs in the fireplace.

I raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"This is Floo Travel," explained Dumbledore quickly. "Move through the fireplace, if you would. You will find yourself at a safe location. We will be right behind you." He gestured towards the green flames in a hurried motion.

I watched the flames carefully before stepping forward slightly. The fire didn't feel as hot or as threatening as they had before. Quite the contrary, it was almost cool and dare I say it, gentle. I reached a hand through the fire carefully, testing the waters.

"For Merlin's sake," growled one of the voices behind me. I felt a gnarled and strong hand push me forward through the flames. I tumbled forward, a scowl upon my face until I was standing inside of the mantle.

A loud rushing noise filled my ears as the world spun around me. I felt myself being pushed away; Green became black as I swam through the fogs of existence.

- - -

I rolled out of the fireplace into another room, soot covering the back of my coat. My eyes were moving instantly, scanning the room carefully while one hand had already found its grip on my gun. I noted the peeling paint on the walls, an assortment of various furniture that seemed to be made of fine wood. Fresh flowers lay in vases across the room -- an effect that did very little to liven the dead atmosphere.

Only a few lights were lit in the room, the only illumination exuding from the small candlesticks that flickered on desks and tables, and the small torches that hung on the walls. However, the lights seemed to magnify enough to rival those of electric bulbs, as there was a scarcity of shadows in the room.

I turned back to the fireplace, the flames of which were a consistent orange. Flames licked against the stone, burning seemingly off of the air and stone itself. I waited for several long moments, yet the flames never flashed green.

And so, my lurking paranoia grew.

"A trap," I mused to myself softly.

Adrenaline coursed through my systems as my heart beat a little faster. A bit of anxiety kept me on the balls of my feet. Remember those police cars back in London? Well the effect was something like this.

But was it really a trap? The wizard had many chances to kill me already -- at the club, in my own house, while I was sleeping, even during my morning. For all I knew, he could've brought down a meteor upon the Vanzetti estate and crushed me in one fell swoop.

Besides, Albus Dumbledore didn't feel like the type of guy who would be so ruthless.

Some people exude manipulation and wit, people that will outsmart you even on your best days. Half of those people will lull you into peace and kill you when you least expect it -- usually indirectly. Maybe it'd be your wife that you'd known for many years, or maybe it would be the bodyguard that wasn't exactly on your payroll. That was the type of guy I was.

Dumbledore, sat on the other side of the spectrum. He liked to hold the cards and propose situations where he would dominate. I'd harbor he was a strong political figure. Take my situation for example, death or go with Dumbledore. Not much of a choice.

Dumbledore's people however, were almost_ kind_, innocent. They were untainted by death; their eyes didn't hold the same feeling of coldness, knowing that you have and can end lives. It's liberating in a euphoric way, but not everyone can relate.

I took a few cautious steps into the house, moving through narrow passageways that seemed to be squeezed between large rooms. Portraits hung throughout hallways, singular torches separating them. The artwork depicted various witches and wizards of various sizes and shapes performing an assortment of activities yet one factor remained constant -- the surname_, Black_.

I heard the crackling of another fireplace, quickly followed by several roars of wind and flame. I moved slowly, cautiously through the hallways. I soon found myself near the foyer; don't ask how I got there, I don't know myself.

"Hey! Who are you?" called a voice from up a flight of stairs.

My eyes slowly turned upwards to the juvenile voice, noticing a small congregation of red-headed figures accompanied by one girl that differed from their mean. The other girl had brown, curled hair and was bereft of the freckles that marred the rest of the troupe.

"A guest," I replied smoothly.

This wasn't a trap, or anything of the variety after all. It was merely a safe house for children, not exactly the terms I had agreed to.

"Are you with the Order?" asked the brown-haired girl carefully.

"Most certainly not. We are simply involved in a minor affair with mutual goals," I returned, beginning to walk away from the group of children towards an adjoining door.

"Oi! You can't go in there! The Order's having a meeting," whispered one of the boys furiously, a lanky teen who was leaning halfway over the banister.

I turned my head up and eyed him lazily, "I assure you, I can."

I pressed a hand against the double doors to the room and was met by a startling crackle of electricity. I jerked my hand back quickly and the door pulsed slightly, a light, soft blue hue. I arched an eyebrow.

"It's locked and warded with charms that the Headmaster put on himself, you won't be able to get in," implored the brown haired girl from the top of the stairs.

Luckily, I didn't have to try to open it.

The doors opened themselves, and out came Albus Dumbledore himself at a leisurely pace. His eyes met mine for a moment before he smiled widely.

"Perhaps the young students listening in from above could spend a few moments in their rooms? I daresay it would be quite a good time to freshen up before dinner -- Molly has prepared the most wonderful meal for us all," said the old wizard. His eyes didn't leave mine during the exchange at all.

A ruffle of feet sounded in response, the students clearing out of the way and into their respective rooms. Some of them whispered rapidly between themselves, each with a note of curiosity. Maybe I was famous after all?

"Mr. Dumbledore, I'm glad you took your time," I stated wryly.

"Ah, do forgive an old man's mistake. The guests are often taken to the second fireplace, quite an ingenious development if I do say so myself," said the old man lightly.

"You never answered my question," I noted. "How will you win this war?"

The old man inclined his head and gestured to an adjoining room. He motioned for me to take a chair in one of the three deep brown leather chairs that were positioned in a small triangle. I gladly accepted, and let my eyes roam over the small room, eyeing every lantern located on the walls and the candles that were placed upon tables. The lights that illuminated onto the walls allowed me to see more of the portraits, one which stared upon me with piqued interest, or veiled contempt. One of those two.

Yeah, the portraits _stared_ at me.

"War is a complex thing, Harry," began Dumbledore slowly, stroking his beard. "It is not a place for young children like yourself. Perhaps you should worry about your upcoming term instead, you will be quite behind your peers."

I kept a calm mask and allowed him to move conversation in the direction of his choosing. He had a hold on this conversation, there was no contesting that.

"I'm a diligent student, Mr. Dumbledore," I returned equally.

"Then you will require the necessary materials," said Dumbledore, "Should you wish to make a patronage to the local market for school supplies, one can be easily arranged."

I inclined my head, "That would be beneficial, Mr. Dumbledore."

The old wizard clasped his hands together, "Excellent. The Weasley family and young Miss Granger are both in need of their own materials. Perhaps it would be best to go together, times such as they are."

I met his blue eyes for a moment, matching him toe for toe. I didn't especially enjoy the dominance he held in our conversation. He knew far much more than I did about his world, and he was using it to establish my actions.

"I assume I will have the chance to acquire a magical wand there?' I asked.

Dumbledore inclined his head, "Correct, Harry. There is a branch of Ministry-approved wandsmiths within Diagon Alley, Ollivander's, you will be able to purchase one there."

"Very well," I said shortly. "I expect there is available lodging in the mean time?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly, "Of course, Harry, of course. You should know however, that the owner of this property is your Godfather, Sirius Black. He is very much wishing to speak to you."

I snorted.

"Family is important to have, Harry," chided Dumbledore softly. "At least give him a chance, he was very close to your parents. You may just find you enjoy his company."

To be honest, I didn't care for a Godfather, another father, a mother, or even siblings. Each of them would only keep me down or get in the way in the end. Maybe I had a little bit of bad luck around me, but those who took over the parental figure never ended well. James Potter, killed; Lily Potter, killed; Alice Vanzetti, killed; and of course, Nicolas Vanzetti had died in front of my eyes.

I rose from my chair and began moving towards the door, but stopped at the threshold. I looked over my shoulder, my lips curling into a somewhat cruel smile.

"Just because you offer me safety doesn't mean we're allies, old man. We're two very different people."

I left without hearing his response.


	4. The First Steps

Cosa Nostra

04. The First Steps

Disclaimer: I own nothing, it all belongs to JK Rowling. I am simply borrowing the characters temporarily to use.

Blackness.

What is it? The absence of light, a world devoid of all color. They say the night can be black, but I've seen it for myself. The night is never black, life is never stagnant. Someone's always awake, someone's always whispering to themselves right before they die.

Sometimes I see faces and screams, my subconscious berating me for the life I live. Sometimes they're morphed, with me as the victim and the shooter as my former target. It never ends well, it's those dreams I like to stir myself out of.

I would say that the screams make me want to reform myself, to become a better person. Like quitting smoking really, people think that quitting makes them a better person.

But I don't. I enjoy every goddamn moment of it.

Tonight however, I found the blackness. Complete and utter peace, a time devoid of all dreams and thoughts. The lucidity of my dream was refreshing, albeit painful. The dark smoke that clouded my thoughts gave way to something else, something far more vile. Tonight, I _saw_ something, something that was so real.

A black throne, layered in dark rubies and gold engravings. The tall back of the throne was decorated in serpents -- long, winding snakes that seemed to move of their own volition. I could hear them speaking, chants of sibilant noises that echoed in the dimly lit room. Their language was foreign, with a lisp that I couldn't quite place.

Torches flickered to life around the room, faint light that now punctured the darkness. I could see a dark, cloaked figure standing in front of me. I felt as if I had taken the throne, assumed the role of power itself. The serpents whispered to me, chanting to me in their own fashion. The man before me trembled, his thin frame quivering with fright.

I felt disgust at the sight, a man so weak that he trembled. He was not fit to exist in this world, not fit to stand where he was. Not fit to be a member of my army.

_My army_?

I wondered at the thought; it seemed so foreign, so strange. As if it wasn't my own at all, but of another.

I turned my attention back to the sniveling man in front of me, I could make out wisps of pale, blonde hair from beneath the cowl of his robe. A white, skeletal mask covered his face, cloaking any features that could discern him from any other.

"_You have failed me, Lucius"_ I said, my mouth and tongue moving of its own accord. It was an odd sensation, as if I was a detached partisan of my own body. I could observe, but my actions were not my own.

"_My Lord! I beg your mercy! His forces appeared before we could complete the task!_" pleaded the blonde-haired man.

I blinked in my state of semi-consciousness and felt the air around me go cold. A looming chill that resembled a cool wind coming through the barest slits of a window. A short exchange of words occurred between members and "myself," yet the sounds seemed faded and blurred.

"_You will not fail this next task, my servant. It would be…ill advised to lose my favor once more."_

"_I live only to serve, Master"_ murmured the blonde-haired figure, bowing low to kiss the hem of my robes.

"_Should you fail, even death will not prove to be your sanctuary." _

The light, burning sensation that I had felt in my scar grew stronger, heavier. It felt as if someone had impaled it, as if blood was being drawn and collected with meticulous detail. Piercing fire coursed through my body -- my breath caught in my throat. I was slowly suffocating, my lungs were on fire; burning with tremendous fury --

And then it stopped.

I took in a sharp breath and raised myself by arms, chest heaving heavily as drops of sweat cascaded from my forehead into the opening of my mouth. I snapped myself out of unconsciousness and looked at the bedroom around me.

The peeling paint was just where it had been the night before, the two twin beds only a few feet away from each other. The red-headed boy -- Ronald had it been? -- still slept as if nothing had affected him in the least. The wooden floor was still covered in a thin layer of dust, cobwebs clinging in corners where the ebony floor met dull white walls.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and let out a heavy breath

"What the hell was that," I muttered to myself.

"Spider," mumbled Ron. "No spiders…please."

I cocked my head towards the young boy. He was still fast asleep, auburn hair covering the majority of his face as his head sank into the pillow. He had been asleep when I entered, and the realm of dreams still swept through his mind.

Dreams.

What had that been? A nightmare? I never saw those figures or that room before in my life, they were completely foreign to me. Yet some part of it was so alive -- so _real_. An out of body experience, maybe?

Yeah. That sounded right.

I lifted myself up and swept up my gun from underneath my pillow -- my own personal James Bond effect. Once the gun was tucked in my waistband, I lazily swept down the hallways of the house, my footsteps on the floor echoing in the silence. I moved down flights of stairs, the ancient oak wood creaking in response. Some strange portrait was covered on one of the walls, maybe these people didn't always want the portraits looking back?

I meandered through the hallways of this "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," noting the variety of _magical_ behaviors that went on throughout the house. I found rooms with rows of some type of shrunken heads, vaguely reminiscent of a gnome or some-type of disproportioned elf. They were of a deep gray color, marked with large ears and protruding snouts. Large rounded eyes stared blankly in front of them, brimming with loyalty.

I passed a room with an involved family tree spreading throughout the room, several members of which were burned off of the tapestry. The winding tapestry ran the length of the room, connecting to different surnames and often crossing with the original lines again.

Inbreeding. How kinky.

My feet soon found themselves in the middle of what looked like a kitchen. A variety of chestnut brown cabinets lined the walls of the room, an unlit stove existed in one corner where two long rows met. An _icebox_ adorned one of the far walls, just next to a window that was opaque enough to block all incoming light.

I opened the icebox and removed what I _hoped_ was something edible -- a bowl of some wizard representation of cereal. I was about to sit down when I heard rapid, terse footfalls coming down the stairs with practiced efficiency.

Sitting down on a chair whose back faced an empty wall, I began to pour myself some of the food, mixing it graciously with milk as I did so. The footfalls led to the entrance of the same girl I had seen earlier -- the brown-haired child from the previous night.

She was garbed in average sleepwear; a loose shirt that concealed two round, average sized breasts and cotton pants. One lightly tanned hand rubbed a light brown eye as her other hand ran through her curled, and somewhat ruffled, hair. She froze upon entering the room, physically trying to calm every movement while she attempted to nonchalantly take a bowl and sit down across from me.

I leaned back, amused, and watched her shaking hand raise her spoon from the bowl to her mouth with consistency.

"Sorry" I began kindly, "I didn't mean to startle you last night."

She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth and arched one eyebrow. Her posture relaxed slightly, elbow resting against the table and bent at a minor angle.

"It's alright" she said with a hint of wariness. "You're Harry Potter aren't you? The Boy-Who- Lived?"

I inclined my head in response, "That's what I'm told. May I ask your name, Miss…?"

"Hermione. Hermione Granger" she said, offering her hand over the top of the table. I smiled courteously and took hers in my own, gripping it lightly. She relaxed after the motion, as if the great mystery that was myself had dissipated into the wind.

"Do you go to a different Wizarding school?" she asked carefully. "I've never seen you at Hogwarts."

I raised an eyebrow. "I've lived in the normal world for my whole life" I said simply. Her eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief going through her features.

"You've never learned about magic then?" she asked with keen interest.

"Correct," I said, a slight undertone of ice in my voice. If she caught it, it was immediately disregarded as she leaned forward in her chair, eyes sparkling with interest.

"I didn't know about magic for a long time either, I'm a muggle-born." Here she paused to see whether or not I was familiar with the word. "It's really interesting, there's so much to learn about."

"Such as?" I asked, a note of wry amusement in my tone.

"Well," she began slowly, "magic has been around for hundreds of years, since the time of Merlin himself. It was even used in the Feudal ages -- back when magical and nonmagical people still interacted together. Wizards frequently aided Muggles, some of them even performed rituals to secure the loyalty between vassals and lords." I didn't miss the obvious excitement in her tone.

"And when did the magical world decide to go into hiding?" I asked. My curiosity was genuinely piqued, and this young girl was all too willing to give information.

"1692, with the passing of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Everything went into secrecy after that, in order to avoid war with the Muggle people and the government" she provided accurately.

I blinked. I don't consider myself to be a champion of history long past, but I knew the literature worth reading. The Salem Witch Trials actually hunted true witches. Interesting.

I opened my mouth to ask whether or not there were regular individuals who knew about the Wizarding world but was cut off as a variety of figures entered into the kitchen.

Ron entered, led by a plump, maternal looking figure with short, red hair. The older woman had rather puffy cheeks, a frilled nightgown on, and weight that came with large family dinners and deserts -- she immediately set off to bustling around the kitchen. Following the young red-haired boy, was a small, petit girl entered with the similar ginger hair of the family. Her gaze fell on me and she flushed a light rouge shade.

The troupe froze when they finally saw me, the mother with her spatula half raised, Ronald in mid-yawn, the girl creeping back slightly.

I simply ate my cereal.

Ron moved forward, messy auburn hair askew. "You're Harry Potter," he said, awed, "You killed You-Know-Who." Contrary to the Hermione's tone, he sounded emphatically involved in greeting me.

I tilted my head to one side, "Quite, though you may need to clarify," I remarked dryly. The redheaded boy seemed perplexed for a moment before he opened his mouth once more.

"But that's what everyone says" Ron exclaimed in a hushed voice. "That's why you have the scar! It's because you were the one that killed You-Know-Who."

I cast him a doubtful expression but otherwise returned to consuming the food in front of me. I raised the silver spoon halfway to my mouth before I was interrupted yet again by the young wizard who had taken to sitting across from me, a few seats down from Hermione.

"Can I see it?" he asked, a note of excitement in his voice. He raised his pointer finger to my head, said long finger quivering slightly. His eyes were wide with anticipation.

"See what?" I queried.

"The _Scar_" Ron whispered, revering the pale marking upon my forehead as if it was a holy grail. I chuckled mirthlessly and leveled my gaze with his. A flash of fear flickered through his eyes, yet his excitement overtook any rationality that he possessed.

My lips settled in a predatory smirk. "This isn't a museum, kid. Save yourself the embarrassment and me the time" I said coolly. His face fell, fists balling underneath the table.

"I'm not a kid" he retorted loudly. "I'm as old as you are!"

I inclined my head in partial agreement. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He frowned and tried for a more friendly approach, standing up in his chair and offering out a hand. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Name's Ronald Weasley" he offered.

I stared at the hand deftly, a nagging thought at the back of my mind.

"_Only shake the hand that you want to keep close to you. Enemy or friend, make sure you want them to know a little bit about you." _

One of Vanzetti's earliest lessons. I stared at the boy in front of me with a contemplative gaze for a few seconds, considering my options. With Hermione it had been a simple matter of reconciliation and polite behavior; this boy was different. He was asking for an alliance, a _friendship_ to form between us.

I didn't see the usefulness of the kid.

I stared at his proffered hand flatly for a moment before reaching for my spoon that had lay dipped into the cold milk of the bowl. He slowly retracted his hand, body tensed, and returned to his seat at the table.

A vague silence overtook the table, only broken by the successive cracking of eggs into a large frying pan and than the subsequent sizzling of eggs and bacon, the toasting of bread, and the pouring of an orange-colored juice into several goblets. The clattering of utensils shortly followed, a cadence of metal on ceramics.

I rose from my chair, pushing it in as I swept away. Maybe I should've taken a risk to stay with the Vanzetti family. It would've been much more comfortable and meaningful than sitting around for a "family" breakfast in the morning.

I shivered at the thought.

* * *

A few short hours later found me leaning against a wall in one of the smaller studies, a roaring fireplace lit with heat emanating from the hearth. A large crowd gathered in front of it, numerous amounts of the children that I had seen earlier combined with several of the adults. I noted the pink-haired Tonks, now utilizing a light green shade of hair, a slightly shorter nose, and clover-green eyes.

Others that I had not met were also present, including the scarred-man with an azure eyeball and a tall, balding, dark skinned man who advised us on the general rules of safety in a deep baritone voice. Both figures exuded authority and power -- neither of which had to do with the wands that were hidden amongst their loose robes.

"Right then," began the grizzled man, "Name's Alastor Moody for those who don't know. It's either Moody or Mad-Eye to you kids."

I felt his gaze drop on me, or at least his rotating electric blue eyeball did. It was oddly disturbing, being watched by something that wasn't real. It locked with me for a brief second, before spinning rapidly around inside the man's head.

"Stay in groups at Diagon Alley" Moody barked sharply. "Make sure there is a member of the Order with you at all times. War isn't a time for making pleasant conversation with strangers."

"But professor" began Hermione slowly, "wouldn't it be better to coalesce into one large group?"

Moody let out sharp, gruff laughter. "And let ourselves be a large target? Bah! Smaller groups make it much more difficult to attack us all at once" he grumbled. He began to hobble towards the fireplace, placing more weight on the leg that wasn't a prosthetic.

The disfigured man took hold of a large pot that stood over the mantle of the fireplace and withdrew a generous portion of the Floo powder before handing it to everyone in the room. I felt the familiar finely crushed pebbles between my fingertips, the coarse material grinding against my skin.

"Potter, you're new to this" growled Moody. "Toss the powder into the fire and say the location clearly. It's Diagon Alley."

As if in example, Moody threw his generous handful of powder into the flames, clearly stating his location. The flames flared into a harsh emerald, raising in intensity but not in heat. The scarred man withdrew a gnarled, yet slender, wand from within the folds of his robe and held it at the ready before entering the flame. His body disappeared in a roar of fire, leaving only a pale orange flame where once emerald flames stood.

Emerald flames? I always knew the Wizard of Oz existed.

I stepped forward, standing in front of the flames as the heat warmed my face. The flames seemed to leak out of the fireplace, urging me to touch them. I threw the powder into the flame carelessly, opening my mouth.

"Diagon Alley" I intoned clearly. The flames bellowed in response, conflagrating to new heights and power. This time I didn't tarry to test the waters of the flames.

I entered. The fire growled its acceptance and consumed me, flames licking my body but leaving my flesh intact and not scorched. Green flames changed into darkness, enveloping my being as I felt myself being whisked away.

My world refocused as I found myself being pushed out of a fire with near-instant speed. I was prepared this time and stepped out of the large, human sized fireplace with efficiency. My eyes scanned the setting, reflexes kicking in from years of refinement.

I was in a pub, a variety of the patrons scattered around the room under cloaks and cowls. The bartender stood behind a long table, cleaning several large glasses with a clean rag. A variety of glasses hung over the barman's table, each being suspended in the air as if by an invisible force. Behind the bar stood a row of what I assumed to be liquors -- Ogden's Firewhiskey, Dragon's Breath, and a strange, unmarked petulant green liquid.

Small fans covered the top of the room, each rotating slowly with measured efficiency. I smelled the stench of ale and food in the air, a mix of beer and some type of pasty being cooked. The barman looked over to me and his eyes widened slightly, somewhat frightened, surprised, and in awe. I saw his mouth form the words "Harry Potter" silently.

I heard the flames roar behind me again and a variety of figures came out in quick succession -- most notably the Weasley family and the young Granger girl. The members of the Order instantly fanned out across the room -- Moody edging near the back door, Tonks only a few feet away from myself, and the dark-skinned man moving to triangulate around the group.

A sharp grunt from Moody coerced the group forward, I followed but I felt the burning gazes of everyone in the pub. I guess I could reason why -- I was dressed in _normal_ attire, the same clothing I had when I came to Grimmauld Place. The rest of my troupe was garbed in robes, and where the rest of them seemed carefree, I met each of the patron's eyes with equal ferocity.

We moved to the back of the pub with precise efficiency, avoiding interaction with any of the moving members. We were soon located in the back of an alleyway, while Moody held his wand in his hand and tapped specific bricks on the walls.

"There we go" he murmured to himself.

The bricks rattled powerfully and dust crumbled from beneath the stone slabs. They folded inward, parting within one another to move to the sides of the walls. The interlocking bricks parted to create a pathway, a doorway to another world itself.

And my God, it was amazing.

Through the doorway I saw columns of stores that ran the length of a long alleyway -- very much in resemblance to the London Underground. Hundreds of wizards and witches traversed the narrow passageway, garbed in an assortment of different colored robes, hats, or some even in seemingly normal attire.

Buildings lined the streets, many of them resembling early twentieth century architecture with shingles that were barely hanging on or buildings that seemed to held up by the frames of magic itself. Shopkeepers stood outside, pitching their new products while large signs stood behind their windows. Young children clustered outside various shops -- the largest crowd around one that depicted a sport of several people mounting brooms and flying.

I've seen some pretty amazing places in my life: the Coliseum of Rome, the London Bridge, the Palace of Versailles, The Louvre. But never had I ever seen a secret that had been kept for hundreds of years -- a secret that had been under my nose all of my life.

It was inconceivable, that a secret of such great magnitude was hidden. If a commercial center like this had been lost to the world, what of other deceased civilizations? The Library of Alexandria could have been cloaked by the guiles of magic. The Bermuda Triangle, perhaps a whole veiled civilization of magical people? Mount Olympus -- a colony of wizards and magical creatures instead of gods? Perhaps the lost City of Atlantis wasn't as lost as I was led to believe.

My feet walked forward of their own volition while my eyes were enraptured by the world around me. Some older people, of their late teens, were playing games with one another that involved the dismissal of sparks from two wand points. Their faces captured by jubilant glee, carefree and innocent.

"Neat, isn't it?" asked Tonks from my left side.

I blinked and was woken from my reverie, eyes sweeping to my side to see the woman standing next to me. She had caught me at my weakest point, and she knew it.

I don't like being caught at weak points, but hey, even the best of us slip up sometimes.

"It's unique. Not what I expected, to say the least" I replied, schooling my features. A wry smile sat on her lips but she said nothing more.

We moved forward through bustling crowds and shopping students to where a large, cathedral-like building of white marble towered above the surrounding buildings. I noticed my company had gone shy of the Weasley members -- they had broken off from the group with Moody as their guard to go peruse an assortment of other shops.

I walked up a shallow staircase of similar white marble and passed through two large, bronze doors. The words "Gringott's Wizarding Bank" were emblazoned in fine gold plating over the top of the doorway. Inside of the building was a surfeit number of tellers, situated on desks that ran the length of the main hallway. Some were tallying large stacks of gold, while others weighed rare jewels the size of my fist.

The creatures that were the tellers however, were not human. They were small, malformed creatures that vaguely resembled the Goblins of lore that I had read about in childhood. Stout figures with protruding snouts, long ears and beady eyeballs moved throughout the bank, often carrying large piles of paperwork.

Born and raised in fantasy gone awry -- that's me.

Tonks stopped moving and I paused, watching the young witch carefully. She reached a hand inside of her side pocket and fished around for something before she removed a small key and handed it to me.

"Your vault key," she said. At my questionable expression she continued, "Dumbledore told us your parents left their vault to you in their Will, it's all yours now."

I grasped the key and felt the cool metal in my hand. It was a heavy thing, probably made of bronze or perhaps brass.

I don't like to rely on people -- never have and never will. If I have to rely on someone, I like to rely on the living. So here I came to a crossroads in the laws that I followed -- this was breaking two laws at once.

But then again, money could prove to be a valuable resource. The world is ran by it, the greedy pursue it while those in control hold large stores of it.

"I would like to make a withdrawal."

* * *

"Standard Book of Spells: Grade Five" I mused to myself, fingers flying across a number of tomes in the crowded book store.

There were rows of texts, mounds of books, and ladders that traversed the multiple shelves of the busy store. The store smelled of dusty old parchment and paper -- which wasn't that far off because half of these texts were _made_ with parchment. No wide-ruled stacks of paper here, just rolls of parchment by the foot. In my left hand was a packet of _quills_ and _inkwells_ that had been used in years past.

Students and adults alike passed by the shelves of books, some of them with less than savory expressions. Most of them however, shared that look of joy and happiness to be returning to school. I guess a lot had changed from when I went to public school. But then again, _I_ had changed a lot since then too.

I picked up one of the said novels that I was looking for and placed it into a large bag. My eyes scanned the shelves for anything else of usefulness -- anything that would help me play catch-up with my soon-to-be peers.

My eyes landed on the _Standard Book of Spells: Grade Seven_.

I like to tell myself that I'm a smart guy. Magic couldn't be harder than some of the areas that I've been forced to study in. It seemed to be a point and shoot topic; not much theory, just spells.

"It's mostly practical anyways" I murmured before grabbing the seventh year text from the shelf. The layer of dust coated my fingertips as I slipped it into my increasingly heavy bag.

"Not really" said a new voice.

I jerked my head upwards from the shelves and my eyes landed on the figure. A young girl, around my age, with gentle, light locks of brown hair cascading down the sides of her face to her upper back. Piercing hazel eyes stared back at me, watching me with careful and meticulous precision. She walked towards me, the motion all hips and long legs, seemingly refined from years of use. Her robes were elegantly designed, accentuating two orbs of milky flesh that lay beneath them while a short cut ran along the legs, providing for ample movement. Usability and style all in one.

It took quite a lot of self restraint to keep the dirty thoughts away.

"Theory, is just as important as actual spell work. What's the use of a few words if you don't know how to make it work?" she asked wryly.

"Perhaps," I returned, reaching out to grasp one of the books on a topic called Transfiguration.

"Mm." She raised a dainty hand to grasp a text on the details of formulating Potions, opening it. After a few page flicks, her pert nose scrunched up in appall.

I watched her carefully out of the corner of my eyes, all the while perusing texts that I required for the upcoming term. She exuded sophistication, or more precisely, aristocracy. Movements were elegant and defined, yet I could _feel_ something looming beneath it. Something complex -- not good, but not necessarily evil. Cunning, would be a more fitting term.

"Are you attending Hogwarts this autumn?" she queried, eyes sweeping up from her readings for a moment to look at my own. I met them with equal intensity, from the corner of my eye.

Very few people can hold my gaze. I'm told most of them see a heartless person, or someone so bent on success that it incites fright. In my life, only a handful of the Vanzetti family had held my gaze, and this newcomer Dumbledore.

She didn't falter.

"Correct. Are you already attending?" I asked courteously. A half-smile quirked on her lips, baring the tips of white teeth.

"I'm a fifth year student. Have you had a chance to purchase a wand yet?" she asked, taking a step closer to me. I raised an eyebrow speculatively. Intuitive, too. Intriguing.

"And what would give you the belief that I'm a fledgling magician?" I asked evenly, rotating to face the young girl. Her eyes flickered with vague amusement.

"That's a first year text. Transfiguration for Beginners is a book that parents buy their children for Yuletide gifts during their first year at Hogwarts. It's supposed to help prepare them for final examinations," she provided casually, motioning to the book in my hands.

My eyes flickered down to the text in front of me, verifying the title. I could even see the illustration of a pin being transformed into a matchbox -- it was juvenile at best. Unfortunately, I couldn't even do _that_.

Oh yeah, the picture was showing _how_ to do it. Ergo, the pictures moved.

"How astute. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, Miss…?" I trailed off.

She considered me for a moment, meeting my eyes again with unwavering certainty. She extended a hand, vertically, knowing all the implications that came with it.

"Daphne. Daphne Greengrass" she said. I gripped her hand lightly, the corners of my mouths tugging upwards to form an amused smile.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

Daphne's eyes flickered up to my forehead for the shortest of moments, enough to verify the jagged scar that was barely visible over my fringe. Her hand gripped my own lightly.

"Well, Harry, I was on my way to Ollivander's myself. Would you care to join me?" she offered. She made a sharp jutting motion with her chin to signify the exit.

I inclined my head, "After you, Daphne."

We moved through the bustling passageways of Diagon Alley, abandoning my guard en route to the building that lay just across the street. Flourish and Blotts lay behind us, Ollivander's lay ahead. I could hear the bustling activity of something nearby -- perhaps a demonstration of a product of some sort. It obviously wasn't dangerous, noting the cheers and chuckles that ran through the crowd.

My eyes followed Daphne the whole way to the store, she was an interesting character. She was the type of person that moved against the flow of a river, and succeeded. Every motion was done with precision and grace, seemingly innocent. But underneath that calm exterior, I could feel the intricate pattern of thought that emanated from her.

Of course, maybe that observation was skewed by…other factors.

I held open the door for Daphne as we entered -- see, I'm still a nice guy -- a bell chiming in response over the threshold. I entered into a dusty room with small boxes that towered to the ceiling, covering every inch of spare space. A back workroom was dimly lit and barely visible among the boxes yet I could make out the silhouette of a small man from the candle flame within the room.

"One moment," he called from the depths of the room.

A short moment later, a portly man emerged from the back room. His eyes were a deep blue color, almost oceanic with a vastness that showed his life. Grays wisps of hair lay atop his head, windswept upwards and to the side. He withdrew a small handkerchief from his pocket and padded his condensing scalp. His eyes turned to me and he pushed the round frames of his spectacles further up his nose, eyes sparkling with interest.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, a long overdue customer. And good day to you, Miss Greengrass. 10 Inches, Walnut, Unicorn hair is it? Still fully functional I hope?" asked Ollivander, eyes alit with anticipation.

Daphne nodded pleasantly, "Still perfectly functional, Mr. Ollivander. I do hope everything is in order?" she asked kindly. Ollivander's eyes flickered over to me for a split second before he nodded shortly, a barely visible movement.

"And you Mr. Potter, I do expect you are in need of a wand?" he prompted. He relaxed somewhat as he swiveled away from Daphne, only to tense when he met my gaze.

"Correct, Mr. Ollivander. Is there a selection of wands to choose from?" I queried. He let out a light chuckle and shook his head.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It is merely a matter of finding which of the many combinations are aptly suited to your person. Which is your wand hand?" said Ollivander. He withdrew a small, silver measuring tape from his pocket and opened it.

The tape moved of its own volition, measuring the right arm that I had held out before him. The tape traveled the length of my arm: shoulder to wrist, wrist to fingertip, elbow to wrist. Ollivander took careful note of each of the numbers and murmured in agreement to himself, and seemingly, the tape.

He walked behind the counter and to the back of the store, shuffling boxes until he removed an armful of possible choices. He opened the first box and held it in front of me.

"Twelve inches, willow, dragon heartstring. Give it a wave," instructed Ollivander.

I grasped the wand and gave the man a questioning expression before I flourished it in front of me. A thunderclap sounded inside of the room and an invisible force lashed out in front of me. The air blurred in front of me, something moving rapidly until in made contact with a vase. The vase shattered with a loud clatter upon impact, falling to the floor in a myriad of pieces.

"Not that one, I think," said Ollivander slowly, prying the wand from my clenched hands.

The ebb of magic felt good inside of me, almost addictive. It was close to something I had felt before, the same amount of pure power and infinite energy. The same direct flow of energy I had felt with my own forms of magic.

And so the process continued, several wands were given to me and were taken away just as quickly. Some flicks and swishes were met by uncontrolled colorful sparks, others by some more entropic effects. Daphne stood silently behind me, the only sound coming from her were chuckles at my misfortune.

"Try this one," suggested Ollivander, removing a particularly dusty box off of the shelves. "Eleven inches, holly, phoenix tail feather as its wand core." His tone had changed, from childish anxiety at a new customer to staunch wariness.

I lifted the wand out of the small box and felt warm, pure power course through my veins. It was refreshing, and compared to the others, it felt just _right_. Goldilocks and the Three Bears here I come.

A swish later found neat, golden sparks spewing forward from my wand. The old wandmaker was ecstatic, eyeing the tool in my hand with utmost fascination. I watched him expectantly, half-waiting for him to tear the wand out of my hand or cry for joy.

"Mr. Ollivander?" I asked slowly.

The man's glazed over eyes shook out of their reverie and he stared at me with interest. "Do forgive an old man for his momentary gap in time. Every wand I sell has a history, and that one, has one of the most unique" he began with a reminiscent tone.

"That wand in your hand, is peculiar. It has never been sold, never reacted reasonably well with any other wizard or witch. It is the brother of the one who gave you that scar" continued Ollivander, gesturing to the marking on my forehead.

I blinked. Wands had _histories_ now, even _related_. Maybe this guy was a little touched in the head, he definitely wouldn't be the first of overworked old men to suffer from dementia.

I smiled kindly, paid him the galleons he requested, and moved to exit the store. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Daphne jot down what looked like an address before passing it to Ollivander. The wandsmith nodded slowly and went off to the backroom again to indulge in his own activities.

We walked out of the store, the bell sounding our exit as we left. Once we stepped outside however, we were greeted with a rambunctious crowd, all cheering jubilantly. I spared a glance to Daphne and saw a slight bitter scowl wash over her face for a faint second. I almost missed the motion -- almost.

"The Minister has come to town," she provided, waving a vague hand towards the center of the crowd.

And so he had. In the center of the crowd, moving towards a large building at the end of Diagon Alley was who I assumed was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. He was a moderately sized man, regal purple robes, trimmed with golden filigree, covering his torso while a small bowler cap sat upon his head. He had a slightly pudgy face, with the drooping cheeks of age. By his side walked several of his advisors and assistants, including one man who looked vaguely familiar to the Weasley clan.

"He's a bought man," I murmured. The signs were obvious, the slight fear he held in his eyes as well as the greed in his lavish spending of fine silk robes.

"A weak leader," said Daphne with distaste. "A man like him halters progress in the world."

I couldn't help but nod my agreement. From what I'd heard about this man, he was a weak politician who was trying to secure a falling power base. A leader that was too weak to rule with a strong fist, and too publicly involved to hold any strong opinions.

No, it wasn't the Minister that I cared for. It was the puppet master who was pulling the strings behind the show.

"Is that Harry Potter over there! Come young man, do come forward!" shouted the Minister over the crowd.

I stood at the door to Ollivander's while the crowd became quiet and heads turned, each trying to find me. Political ploys.

I moved forward through the crowd as if I had parted the rivers of the Nile itself. The crowd was silent, some of the murmuring silent prayers that I had survived and returned to their world while others watched me with piqued interest. The sound of my boots were the only noise that echoed in Diagon Alley, clacking against the stone with defined movements. The Minister smiled broadly and gestured me forward, as if coercing a small child into his arms.

"Minister Fudge" I greeted, holding out one hand in a universally recognized sign. His grin, if possible, broadened as he shook my hand with enthusiasm, pumping it strongly. I grasped his hand with a vice-like grip, letting him know that this wasn't a social call.

"Welcome, welcome Mr. Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived has returned!" he proclaimed, not noticing the grip I had placed. A cheer went through the crowd and I couldn't help but smile, albeit coldly.

Worker ants. Every single one of them. Wizards weren't intellectually superior to their normal, Muggle counterparts. They were just as gullible, just as blind, just as easily won over.

"Mr. Potter! John Robinson, Wizarding Times. Where have you been all these years?" a man called from the crowd. A flash of cameras went off while Fudge's hand was still interlocked with mine, but I turned my attention to the news reporter.

Where had I been? I had been living in London on the streets, doing what it took to secure an empire. An empire that was crumbling, one that would take time to rebuild.

I flashed the reporter a mechanical smile, "Here and there" I replied cryptically. The crowd chuckled while the reporter frowned, obviously displeased.

"Now, now, John. No need to immerse the boy in politics just yet" chided Fudge, placing one arm on my shoulder. I flinched and cast the Minister a cold glare. He saw the unspoken threat and relaxed his grip until it was barely touching the outside of my jacket.

"Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. Tell the readers of the world, Harry, is there a special someone in your life?" asked Skeeter. The cosmetically affected reporter's lips settled into a sweet smile, casting me an overly friendly wink.

Scandals, scandals. Tut tut Miss Skeeter, word wouldn't get out if I slept with even you.

I offered her a quaint smile, "Maybe another time, Miss Skeeter. I'm simply here to do acquire my purchases for the upcoming term" I responded, averting conversation.

Rita Skeeter didn't miss a beat, "How's an exclusive at 4 o'clock at the Leaky Cauldron? You have quite a following, you know."

I inclined my head politely, "I must decline, Miss Skeeter. I really should conclude for the day. There are just so many things to see and very little time to see them," I said, beginning to move away.

"What about the threat of war Mr. Potter? Do you believe You-Know-Who has returned?" called another voice from the crowd.

I stopped moving while the crowd died down and watched me expectantly. I felt Fudge's grip tighten on my shoulder, his eyes moving nervously around in its socket. An important question, one that could curry me political clout or shatter whatever image I possessed. I could practically feel the anxiety of Fudge from behind me.

"_Don't make enemies hastily. Make sure there are few that know you are against them"_

An article of advice from Vanzetti, one that I'd put into use.

I turned to the crowd, "I will withhold my opinion on this upcoming war until there is more substantial evidence to be seen. Good day" I said with a tone of finality. I felt Fudge's grip relax as he turned towards me with beaming pride.

I outstretched my hand again and he grasped it, I could feel the moisture between his fingertips.

I grabbed his fingertips hard and pulled him towards me while the crowd dissipated around us. My mouth was just outside his ear while my hand crushed his fingertips.

"You owe me," I said softly, no malice in my tone. "When the time comes, I expect for you to return the favor, regardless of whoever's payroll you're on."

The Minister of Magic blanched, all color draining away from his skin while a new round of sweat beaded on his forehead underneath the purple bowler hat. He nodded shortly and I released my grip, giving him a kind smile as his left hand nursed his red, knobby fingers.

"What do you want?" he asked warily, hand still trembling.

I smiled kindly, "Nothing extensive Minister. Just your friendship, perhaps a favor or two."

He frowned but nodded slowly, surveying me carefully. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my guard beginning to close in on me. I offered the Minister a reassuring smile, meeting his frightened eyes.

"Good day, Minister."

I've said it before, and I'll say it many times more. I like holding the pieces of the puzzle. I was off to a good start, a Minister with a large favor owed to me, a few allies made along the way, and even the public held me in good regard. I was gaining territory in spades.

For the first time I realized that the Wizarding world was fragile. Ran by corrupted officials, operating to cloak the true problems of the world, and ruled by power. On one side sat the benign Dumbledore, on the other, the corrupted Voldemort. Both had their hands in politics, and both were well versed in the arts of magic.

I could play two sides, I could keep myself safe without having to rely on an old man. All it would take would be the small debt here, maybe another ally there, and I would be positioned perfectly.

Maybe I could go one step further. Maybe I'd stay here and grasp the reigns of a falling government -- push it where I wanted it to be pushed. With my back turned to the minister, a cold smile graced my lips.

It was just like London, all over again. This time however, I would play to win.


	5. Do You Believe In Magic?

**Cosa Nostra**

_05. Do you believe in Magic?  
_

"Peruvian Viptertooth claws, ten galleons each. One of the rarest potion ingredients out there," advised Mundungus Fletcher, nudging my ribs with his elbow in an overly friendly manner.

And so I had found myself waiting downstairs with a small trunk full of texts and a variety of clothing while the rest of the children prepared to ready their materials prior to our journey to Platform 9 ¾. How that existed, I may never know.

Mundungus 'Dung' Fletcher was a small, squat man with an unshaven face and loosely hanging hair. He smelled of whiskey and garbage, both of which I would probably have expected of such a character. Fletcher was useful, though, with a history a shade lighter than my own.

"Really?" I asked, stroking his ego, "Those must be quite difficult to acquire. You wouldn't happen to have any, say, luck potion, would you?" I had skimmed across the term when browsing through Potions ingredients and it was intriguing, to say the least.

A flash of greed flickered in Fletcher's eyes. "Fifty galleons and I could get you enough to last three days. Might take a bit to get together, but I could mail it to you within a few weeks," he offered in a low whisper.

The little thief's eyes quickly scanned the room, no doubt checking for any of the other Order members.

I gave him a wry smile and brought my mouth closer to his ear. "Get it to me within this week. It'll be worth your while," I said softly, pressing a small bag of golden coins into his hands.

I felt his grip instantly tighten around the bag and his eyes bulged slightly. He turned to me with a greedy smile, his eyes alit with anticipation. Fletcher's eyes glanced down towards the bag before his mouth hung open slightly.

"Harry, this is, what, a hundred galleons?" he asked, perplexed. "I'm not sure if I can get you that much, kid, Felix Felicis is a rare thing to come by."

I inclined my head, "I'm aware, Mr. Fletcher. Consider it a payment of gratitude. Take a night to yourself," I said, patting his shoulder. "I'd like it if we could do business like this more often, wouldn't you?"

Fletcher nodded slowly, pulling me further into the foyer, into a corner where an umbrella stand lay alone.

"What do you need, kid? I can get it, for the right price of course," said Fletcher in a quiet whisper, looking over his shoulder every few moments to check for others.

I smiled amusedly, "I want nothing but your friendship, Mr. Fletcher. Over the year I will need certain items and information, some of which may be confidential. I'm sure I could rely on you. As one friend to another?" I asked smoothly. I met his brown eyes meaningfully, piercing into his mind itself.

He nodded carefully, "What type of stuff will you be need? I know some people that may be able to provide somethin'…" he trailed off.

I needed sources within the Order of the Phoenix and the lower crowds of the Wizarding World itself. Mundungus Fletcher was a man only too well positioned to complete both tasks for me. He not only held the apparent favor of Dumbledore, but was also involved in some of the deeper, darker circles of wizard kind. A snitch, and a damn good one if I could become his puppeteer.

"You misunderstand me. I want you to gather information, anything that you might happen to hear in passing. Especially in passing around _certain areas,_" I said, an inflection in my tone.

Fletcher winced and backed away slightly. "No can do kid, I owe Dumbledore big. He'd have my head if I went around blabbing what I hear," said Fletcher nervously. I deftly reached into my pocket and withdrew a galleon, flipping it in the air as one would a coin.

"Consider who your friends are, Fletcher," I said coldly. I dropped my voice to a whisper, "Do you really think the Order will be kind to you when this is over? I've seen the way they look at you, they don't value what important information you provide."

Fletcher frowned and eyed the galleon in my hand hungrily.

Let me give you a piece of advice. Money talks, and there's nothing in the world that money can't buy. Some people say that money can't buy you friends -- I beg to differ.

He shook his head quickly. "Can't do it kid, I owe Dumbledore too much," he said; I could hear the anxiety in his voice. His will surprised me for a moment, I had expected him to accept more easily.

I changed my expression into a friendly smile, "My apologies, Mr. Fletcher. Good luck in your sales -- as you said, Peruvian Vipertooth claws are a Class-B Non-Tradable Substance," I noted smoothly, turning my back on Fletcher and beginning to walk away.

I let my coins jingle in my pocket, I could practically feel the labored breathing of Fletcher behind me. Maybe it was because I was walking directly into the room where some of the Order of the Phoenix members were conversing, especially one Alastor Moody.

"Wait," called Fletcher exasperatedly. I paused, turning to view him expectantly.

_Bingo._

"I can't give you all of the Order's information, but I can get you some of the stuff in other circles. Corporations, business, some of the crowd in Knockturn Alley. Maybe even some death eaters if I get lucky," he said quickly, stammering slightly.

I turned back to Fletcher and the edges of my lips turned into a predatory smile. I withdrew a smaller bag from the insides of my robes and tossed it lightly through the air, lobbing it towards the thief.

"Thank you Mr. Fletcher, I'll be in touch." I said with a touch of authoritative power in my tone, the way Vanzetti used to command those beneath him. With a flourish of my jacket, I set off down the hallways, in search of the kitchen.

I'll be honest, Pumpkin Juice is damn good.

With a small glass of said juice in my hands, I walked back to the foyer. I had developed an informant, one that would hopefully keep me in check with the activities of the real world. I could tell Albus Dumbledore would be less than enthused to include me in his war -- after all, he had offered me safety, not a position on his team.

At least now, I felt I had a purpose. It was simple really, most people in the world do it without even realizing.

To survive.

My circumstances were a little different than the average bear's. The threat of an over looming, vengeful force did hamper any innocent endeavors that I may pursue. Who knew how far Voldemort's tendrils of influence spread? He had played this chessboard longer than I had, he was far more developed.

But what was I doing?

I was gaining control of the life I lived -- gathering pieces of my puzzle. I wouldn't be caught sitting down letting big boys play with all of the cards, boys such as Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Fudge. I wanted a piece of the pie as it were, a part of the power that was up for grabs.

And when I got that influence, then what? Even I can't tell you. I like to think a few steps ahead, not miles ahead. Life changes too much far too quickly. I don't care if there are seers or prophets in the realms of magic, my life isn't written in stone. I've ended too many to believe that.

I took a sip from the cool, orange drink in my hand and leaned against the wall where the paint wasn't peeling. The assortment of Weasleys moved rapidly up and down the stairs, some of them hefting large trunks while two identical twins seemed to _levitate_ them with their wands, as if a string attached their wandtip to the luggage.

"Harry, can I talk to you for a moment?" asked a voice to my right.

I turned, my gaze passing through the thickets of Weasleys, especially the crowd around the youngest boy who had received a prefect's badge. My eyes landed on Sirius Black himself, the very man that I had been hoping to avoid. I vastly dislike dealing with emotional adults, and the way his eyes watered every time he saw me was more than enough for me.

The man himself was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, shaggy black hair falling loosely down his face. Eyes stared back into my own, cold and as lifeless as the winter. Black was a man who had lived through mentally trying times, and he wasn't great at coping with death. Half of me wanted to pretend I didn't hear him, the other half thought he might one day be a viable resource.

I like to go beyond holding the cards on the table. I want the dealer on my payroll, as many people as I can playing for me, and a rigged hand. If someone wanted to show me their hand and motivation early in the game, who was I to refuse?

I inclined my head towards Black and followed him into an adjoining room. He led me into an official looking dining room, faint light shimmering from a dusty, golden chandelier. Tapestries covered one wall, depicting ancient figures in a setting of battle with one side being the obvious victor. Black pulled out one of the chestnut chairs and took a seat at the head, I remained standing.

Neither of us said anything for a few moments, Black was content with simply watching me for several long moments. I returned his gaze equally, forcing him to look away after a trice.

"You look just like them, you know. Just like both of your parents. They were both very good friends of mine," he said sadly, a reminiscent gleam in his eyes.

I arched an eyebrow, "I'm sure you'll find that I'm very different than my biological parents, Mr. Black. I prefer not to follow any genetic similarities," I stated with a hint of coldness.

If Black caught it, he shrugged it off. Instead, he pressed forward.

"I know you like to stay alone Harry, but if you ever need help, I'm here for you," offered Black, leaning forward in his seat.

I might've felt touched once upon a time, in a land far, far away. In another life I might've smiled and hugged the man, telling him that I loved him as a father. Let's wake up to the real world, Sirius Black was an available resource -- nothing more.

"Should I require you aid, Mr. Black, I will request it," I replied coolly, "Is there anything else?"

Black recoiled as if I had just struck him with the most deadly blow I could wield. He hadn't realized that he was just a business endeavor to me. Sure I would use him later, a desperate man is a valuable resource. Maybe when he had controlled himself -- emotional men were worth nothing to me, their conscience would get in the way of any goal I held.

"I wouldn't mind if you called me Sirius," he said quietly. "If you ever want to know about your parents, you can always come to me." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes scanning the room and watching everything but my own.

I chuckled mirthlessly.

"Mr. Black, I would have hoped you would have realized by now," I said, amused. "The Potters meant very little to me. I'm afraid I don't possess the lasting bonds of friendship that you do."

I turned around and began to walk away when I heard his meek voice sound again, his chair scratching the wooden floor as he stood to face my retreating back.

"James asked me to take care of you if anything happened to him or Lily…I swore that I would" said Black softly. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet while I turned my head around, eyeing him with a hard gaze.

"If you want to help me, Mr. Black, help yourself first. Death happens in life, it's the natural cycle -- accept it and move on," I remarked uncaringly, turning my back to the man and walking away at a brisk pace. I left Black staring at my back, a profound and almost shattered expression upon his face.

Am I heartless? Probably. Life isn't a Disney story, not one with wonderful heroes and family reunions. This is real life, where people stab you in your sleep, rape your children, and toss you in a river when they're done with you. If these wizards thought I was going to be a misunderstood, kindhearted boy, they were quite wrong.

Well, maybe they wouldn't quite understand me at first. In time, they might.

I entered the foyer to find a waiting party, composed of all the students under the wing of the Order of the Phoenix waiting for me. I had a lurking suspicion that some of them were listening to my conversation, judging from the rather profound solemnity of the troupe.

The corners of my lips twitched into an amused smirk.

"At your leave, Mr. Moody. The ticket provided reads 11:00 AM," I commented wryly, flicking my left wrist upwards to check my watch. "Currently, the time is 10:25:39. I would prefer not to be late."

Moody growled something indiscernible at me before taking a swig of something from his hipflask and hobbling towards the door. I followed suit, lifting my luggage up on the way while the rest of the group followed behind me. I picked up a spare umbrella out of the stand and propped it open, holding it over my head as I exited into the stormy morning.

Rain fell down over my head, pattering against the fabric of the umbrella with measured consistency. It soaked into the ground, doing little to flood the cold, hard cement. I stared upwards, drops fell down against my face and cascaded through my lips. The sun was hidden behind clouds, the moisture thick in the air. I inhaled deeply.

The best stories, begin with the rain.

* * *

A short walk later found me within the King's Cross station, one that I had frequented many times over the years. Half of me doubted that the "Hogwarts Express" could be one of the trains that readily traversed the lines, I usually kept a good eye for stuff out of the ordinary.

And so you would expect my surprise when I saw the young Ron Weasley disappear through the brick arches between Platforms Nine and Ten. And I mean he _disappeared_, as in the kid seemed to mould with the wall itself.

"Potter, you're up next. Straight through the barrier, no fooling around," growled Moody.

I met the wizard's gaze evenly, watching his prosthetic eyeball with certainty. I swept by him, pushing my trolley towards the brick wall, albeit suspiciously. The tip of the metal cart punctured brick and moved through it as if it was simply water.

My body was the last to follow through the portal, and I felt the barrier for myself. It was like a soft curtain of silk that let itself be parted by my very being. The layers moved to the sides and I leaked into the pores of the magical world. I pushed out the other side and raised an eyebrow in interest.

The Wizarding world never ceased to amaze me.

On the other side of the barrier to Platform 9 ¾, lay the hidden society that had been veiled by the normal world. Bustling students with similar trolleys moved rapidly around the grandiose platform, all followed by worried parents and siblings. The bright red steam engine that was the Hogwarts Express lay docked, a conductor near the head with a small, metal whistle in his mouth. I could spot the youngest Weasley son in front of me, the trolley of Hermione Granger behind me.

My eyes flickered down to the small ticket that lay in my fingertips. The Hogwarts Express, from Platform 9 ¾, Kings Cross, London. So this was it, the realm of magical wizards within the lands of London itself.

Interesting.

I stepped forward, quite used to boarding trains and subways. I followed the flow of traffic and worrisome parents until I found the luggage compartment, where I gladly stored all my excess items.

"Harry," greeted a familiar voice from my side. My head turned, as did those of Hermione and Ron. I was met by the same figure as the young lady who had greeted me in Diagon Alley -- one Daphne Greengrass.

"Daphne," I returned equally. "To what do I owe this amorphous pleasure?"

A small, pleased smile graced her lips as she walked towards me, with the same aristocratic grace. "A small offer," she said lightly, almost innocently. "A compartment. That is, if you haven't found one yourself."

Friend or foe, which one was Daphne Greengrass? In the immortal words of those philosophers long past: keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer. Either way, I was never one to let a possibly powerful ally slip between my fingertips.

I inclined my head, "After you, Daphne."

I began to follow the young witch before a hand of long fingers gripped my shoulders. I turned around slowly, eyes watching the red-headed captive of my shoulder. I cast him a questioning glance.

"You shouldn't go with her, mate, she's a Slytherin. Around here, well, let's just say they're not the most trustworthy bunch," advised Ron slowly. I met his eyes with my own, lazily narrowed yet with all the same wintry intent.

"When I desire your advice, Mr. Weasley, I will request it. Until that time, I would prefer if you kindly removed your hand," I said frostily. The spindly fingers quickly retracted, obvious disappointment and barely withheld outrage on the boy's face.

My feet moved forward, walking alongside the young witch who had invited me into her domain. My eyes watched the passing compartments with interest. The students seemed to vary in age from their youngest and most excitable ages of their lower teens to the more relaxed counterparts of older adolescence. A small trolley of sweets and other assortments of snack-foods moved from compartment to compartment slowly, an old lady with gray locks of hair managing the cart.

Daphne stopped after a few more steps and slid open one of the local compartments, its door rattling against the sliding threshold. She stepped inside first, taking a seat by another girl while a tall, dark skinned boy sat across from the two girls. I awkwardly entered the compartment and stood for a moment, waiting to be introduced.

Never introduce yourself first, it makes you seem arrogant. That's how Vanzetti ran his life, that's how I'd run mine.

"Tracey, Blaise. Meet Harry Potter. Harry, Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini," introduced Daphne, motioning to each of the individuals in turn. Contrary to popular methods, handshakes were not exchanged. In fact, only a vague greeting sounded from each of the two individuals.

The young Tracey Davis was a small girl, wheat-blonde hair flowing down to the mid back. Two surveying, cerulean, eyes watched me carefully; her slightly sharpened nose scrunched up occasionally as she read a small pamphlet in her equally dainty hands. Somehow, I had the feeling that when she was reading her pamphlets, her eyes were never on the paper itself. They scanned me with utmost precision, taking in every meticulous detail; analyzing me.

The taller, darker, and quite male Blaise Zabini didn't survey me over a pamphlet. His brown eyes held mine with a strange certainty, only flickering to the side for a moment when I met his gaze with my own. His robes fell loosely around himself and for the first time I noticed that all three of the occupants in the compartment were of green and silver markings -- the house of Slytherin.

Cunning, witty, known for their guile.

"Ever play a game of chess, Potter?" asked Blaise, reaching to the luggage shelf above his seat to remove a small, ornate box. He opened the box and the pieces seemed to find their position by themselves, I could've sworn I heard them whisper.

The edge of one side of my mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Once or twice," I returned evenly.

I'm not going to say I'm the next Bobby Fischer, but I've played my fair share of games. Vanzetti encouraged the game, to him it was a way of showing me how to consider every option laid out in front of me. To watch the angles, to see how carefully life must be played.

He placed the chessboard in the small space between us, the white side to himself while I was given the black side. Offensive, interesting.

"They say the headmaster is the most powerful wizard in the world," began Blaise nonchalantly, making his first move, a relatively basic start. The king's pawn.

"Power is subjective," I replied, similarly moving a pawn. "It is merely a form of comparison to those of the current era. Kings are powerful because those around them are weak."

A flash of surprise flickered through the boy's features. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the motion similarly mirrored in the expression of the young Tracey Davis.

I vaguely registered the train's movement beginning, a small lurch that was followed by an increase in pace. Some of the younger children from adjacent compartments could be heard shouting farewells to loved ones, parents and siblings alike.

A small chuckle left Blaise's mouth, "Some people even say the Minister is powerful," commented Blaise offhandedly, undertones lacing his voice. His fingertips pushed a knight forward, the character of which grumbled in response.

I gave him a half-smile, I had read the article myself. _Boy-Who-Lived Supports Minister_, by the notorious Rita Skeeter. A front-cover page with the firm handshake between myself and Fudge had hit the Daily Prophet the following morning.

As a rule, I don't like my picture being taken. Pictures can place you in the wrong hands if you're not careful -- you might have not known that your old school friend would one day become a crime associate. It could raise doubt about yourself, and essentially, weaken your support.

"A puppet is only as powerful as the puppeteer, Mr. Zabini," I remarked, amused. "Veiled comments do not suit you. If you desire a direct answer, you need but ask."

A faint smile curled on the boy's features while he made another move, to which I responded with in kind.

"I like him already, Daphne," said Blaise wryly, leaning back into his seat, "Name's Blaise, Blaise Zabini." He offered out his hand, which I accepted in a firmly gripped handshake.

Some people might relax, and accept his friendship without another word. We had traded words for words, ideals for ideals. My position had been challenged -- tested -- and I had succeeded.

I motioned towards the chessboard in front of us, moving a bishop to force his queen into a rather precarious position.

"And what of you, Mr. Zabini? Should the Minister be most powerful? Or the Wizard who is most apt?" I asked slowly. The young wizard's expression grew clouded, his eyes flickering over to Daphne for the barest of moments.

As soon as it had come however, it was gone, leaving a completely calm, collected individual. He simply smiled gregariously and pushed a piece forward.

"Neither," he replied evenly. "Power is far too intangible. It moves too quickly to be captured by only one man." The look in his eyes told otherwise.

I smirked. I liked this guy. Some people you just like off the bat -- Blaise Zabini had some of those qualities running through his blood. Wit, class, and ambition.

The young Tracey Davis lowered her pamphlet in measured motions, folding it away and tucking it into an inside pocket of her robes. She watched me again with that same utmost analytical certainty, weighing me as if I was a prepared recipe.

"You seem to know a lot for being a recluse to the Wizarding world, Potter," remarked Tracey. "Rumor has it that you discovered you were a wizard less than a year ago."

"I keep my eyes open, Miss Davis," I responded smoothly, capturing Blaise's knight with my pawn. "It's important to watch how the pieces move."

A small, wry smile quirked on her lips, "And what piece are you? The knight perhaps? Or maybe the bishop?" She motioned towards the chessboard in front of me.

I chuckled lightly, drawing my eyes away from the board to watch the blonde girl. Her eyes met my own, and for the first time, I noticed that hers were sparkling with amused interest.

"I am but a pawn, Miss Davis," I replied, a half-smile curving on my lips.

"An interesting choice," prompted Daphne, her brow crinkling somewhat as a knowing expression was etched into her features. "The pawn is perhaps the most coy piece on the board, critical only at the end of the game."

I inclined my head indulgently, that was the point I had been after. A pawn is one who can change to any means: the influential Queen, the clever Knight, the sly Bishop, or the coy Rook. A pawn can topple an army, if simply placed in the right positions.

Blaise chuckled quietly, "But after all, this is just chess," he remarked offhandedly, lazily moving a piece to threaten a lowly pawn .

I offered him a mechanical smile, moving a piece and placing his king in a threatened position. The young boy countered deftly, relocating his king to the back row.

Time continued forward, conversation grew to more casual levels as I stared outside the window, watching fens pass through the window. Ferns became shrubs, shrubs became trees, trees became forests, and I was lost to the conservative nature of Wizards around me.

* * *

A few short hours later, found the Hogwarts Express pulling into a small station. Very contemporary with a backwater town feel. The clouded sky had given way to a more darkened night, the sun replaced by a luminescent moon. The faint smell of pine trees and forest found its way to my nose, filling it with the scent of nature rather than the poignant aroma of the city.

The train station that I exited out of was old fashioned -- from the old stone floor to the bricks arches that led to the pathway that would take me to the school itself, it simply exuded an early seventies feel.

In the distance I could make out a large, burly figure rallying younger, smaller students to his point. And when I mean large, I mean _large._ Even the better enforcers of the family lacked the size and mass that this man held; his beard rivaled the size of their heads. Yet for all the mass, the beaming smile on his face was one of kindest and most reassuring I had seen in a long time. The gentle giant, how quaint.

I pulled at the neck of my Oxford collar and shifted the robes that fell loosely around me, feeling like a priest out of place. My fingertips tugged at the black tie that was the formal dress code -- at least until I had been sorted to the proper house. The young Miss Granger had been more than informative over the last two weeks, knowledge came only too easily when prodded for.

Soft fingertips brushed the side of my shoulder; I swept my head to the side and my eyes met Daphne's. I arched an eyebrow in question. The young witch simply smiled pleasantly and leaned forward so her mouth was just outside of my ear.

"You'd do well in Slytherin, Harry," she whispered.

The House system of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry meant very little to me. In the house of Gryffindor I would be confronted with those of brave and strong hearts; in Slytherin, the cunning and ambitious; in Ravenclaw, those of wit and knowledge; in Hufflepuff, the wizards who were most loyal and diligent. Each house offered me a different strength -- in Slytherin I would meet those who would be cunning enough to prove to be ample allies, in Ravenclaw I would meet resources, in Hufflepuff I would acquiesce dependable allies, and in Gryffindor, I would gain those brave enough to stand by my side.

Basically, I didn't care. I would gain resources and contacts from where I was placed. If I had to be a little more ruthless and cunning to obtain it, so be it.

I inclined my head politely towards Daphne, "We'll see how Fate has decided to play this round," I commented wryly.

She tilted her head to the side, pensive, one finger pressed against the tip of her chin. A light, private chuckle to herself later found the lithe girl walking away, along with Blaise and Tracey, towards a dirt and gravel pathway.

I shrugged and turned towards the pathway of smaller children huddling around the large man. My feet moved up the dirt pathway, eyes scanning the trees and shadows of the forest in what a sign depicted as "Hogsmeade village."

Yeah, I'm paranoid. To be honest, walking around in a forest during the night in a place where my magical aptitude was severely lacking wasn't something high on my bucket list. I carried a revolver in my pocket but hell, that forest didn't look very inviting. I'm pretty good at staying alive, fifteen years of going from bad to even worst situations gives you that edge.

I didn't miss the questioning glances of the little sprites around me, all of them talking to each other in excited whispers. As soon as I reached the clearing to the forest, I might've whispered too, if I was a little kid.

The Hogwarts School, was not a school for starters, at least not by any colloquial means. It was a _castle_, one with towers that rose above the basic battlements of the structure. Ancient stone buildings were connected in a very medieval architectural style -- arched doorways, domed entrances, and two incredibly large doors that stood at the entrance. A giant lake stood before our troupe and the castle itself -- the water of which was as black as the night sky.

I followed the giant man until we reached a shoreline; longboats adorned the coast, pulled up onto the moist sand of the low tide. I entered the first before me, followed closely by two young children, one little girl and one little boy.

And so I crossed the metaphorical Delaware, a small lantern attached to the front of the boat acting as my beacon in the night. Our boat had no crew, no captain, no paddles, or even anyone to steer the lines. The sea craft simply moved of its own volition, transporting newer students across the watery depths of the Lake.

"This is wicked!" exclaimed the young boy, hands on the stern of the longboat, torso leaning over the edge.

I stared up at the castle in front of me, the illumination of the entrance hall acting as our beacon in the darkness. I couldn't help but agree, somehow it's every normal kid's dream. To be something else, something _supernatural_.

I looked over the edge of the boat and into the water, and for a moment, I thought I saw something looking _back_ at me. I guess it's true what they say: stare too long into the deep, eventually something starts staring back. The large figure underneath the surface moved quickly, disappearing at surprising speeds. Was that a tentacle lurking in the depths? No, surely not.

The boats pulled up onto shore with magical efficiency -- docking just enough to touch the sand to allow the smaller individuals to enter into the lands of Hogwarts without getting too wet. The tide was surprisingly low, leaving a myriad of pebbles to cover the synthesis of dirt and sand.

I swept past the children and got to the front of our little entourage, eyes scanning the Hogwarts grounds carefully. In the distance I could see a small hut with a straw roof, laying just outside the tips of the forest that encompassed the grounds. Closer to the school, a vast stadium stood tall, three hoops in the air on each side. A sport that I had come to understand as Quidditch, from the ramblings of Ronald Weasley. Atop the rolling hills, lay a variety of greenhouses, all marked with respective numbers -- near which, an assortment of vegetable patches lay.

The giant of a man parted the way through the crowd and to the entrance, his lumbering mass moving with surprisingly efficient speed. The doors were opened with a resounding creak, old rusty hinges complaining from the man's gruff touch. I entered the Castle known as Hogwarts and was immediately met in the large room with a roof that towered above us -- the Entrance Hall.

In straight succession, the smaller students rallied near me once the giant man had left, falling into a mob around me. My eyes deftly scanned them and my surroundings, taking in the interested gazes of portraits on walls, the light coming from torches set amongst the walls, even the shadows beneath the staircases that loomed above me.

"First years, over here please," prompted a voice, one that came from an old crone of a witch. Black hair, flecked with gray, was pulled back into a tight bun, lips drawn into a thin line. Her eyes were narrowed and disturbingly professional behind her spectacles, watching each student with measured certainty.

I felt like a little kid on the lunch lines again, being shuffled into a single file line at the entrance to the Great Hall.

"Inside you will be sorted into your houses before the welcoming feast begins," she remarked primly, an inflection of Scottish brogue in her tone.

Professor Minerva McGonagall, resident instructor of Transfiguration, nearing her seventy fifth birthday this coming October. The residing Deputy Headmistress incase any untimely circumstance should befall the Headmaster himself. Head of Gryffindor House, a registered cat animagus, and apparently a very proficient one at that.

And how do I know this, you may ask?

Information comes from everywhere -- it just takes someone willing to listen in order to find it.

The grand doors to the Great Hall opened with a loud creek, old hinges working to sustain the mass of wood that had been parted. I stared over four tables filled with watching eyes, all with piqued interest and excitement. Roaring fireplaces crackled behind the head table at the front of the room, yet most of the light came from candles that seemed to _float_ in the room.

But perhaps the most unusual part of the room was the ceiling.

Instead of a standard white walled ceiling, the zenith was _transparent_, reflecting the night sky with unreal perfection. The stars and shimmering moon hung above us, almost as if the ceiling didn't exist at all. A pathway to the heavens, a way into the cosmos itself.

The line of the unsorted students of Hogwarts stood at the threshold, standing directly between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, noting from their colors. I felt gazes burn into me, analyzing me from every direction. The head table, the students, even the young children behind me that murmured incessantly.

McGonagall placed a small stool in front of the line, atop which a rather worn Hat was speaking loudly, words that my distracted mind had all but missed. The lip of the Hat finally came to an abrupt stop, content to lay flaccid upon the stool.

"Prepare to be sorted when your name is called," intoned McGonagall, gesturing towards the stool and the Hat respectively. A trailing piece of parchment was held in her hand, some writing scribbled over it.

"Abel, Jonathon!"

The small, tottering boy of just above four feet moved forward from the line, his robes trailing over the floor. The child quivered as he sat upon the three-legged stool, the Hat that was placed upon him falling over his eyelids. His lips moved soundlessly, and the brim of the Hat widened.

"Hufflepuff!"

And so, with a round of thunderous applause, the Sorting Ceremony began.

The children cautiously moved forward, each sitting upon the table before getting into their selected houses -- be it Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Slytherin. Lines were being drawn; the blank slate of the children were being etched upon, marked by the influences of their own House.

"Potter, Harry!"

I shook out of my reverie at the call, head cocking to the side to eye the old crone with her hat. I didn't miss the deadly silence that befell the room, the only sound that existed was soft crackling of embers. Silence was replaced by hushed whispers, echoing off of the stone walls of the Great Hall.

"_The Harry Potter?"_

I stepped forward in my robes, eyes focused on the hat itself. The students watched me, awed, as if I was a walking incarnation of a god. Jaws unhinged against the sound of my shoes against the floor, muffled _clacks_. Necks stretched from the table, each individual trying to get a better view. It was amusing, in a disturbing sort of way.

The hat fell over my head as I stood -- there was no need to sit atop the stool. It fit me well, and for a moment, I felt as if something had pressed against my mind itself. A voice sounded within the depths of my mind a soft whisper at first.

"_Ah…Harry Potter." _

I kept a calm expression as I wondered how the effects of magic could mirror schizophrenia, voices in my head. A low, almost rumbling, chuckle sounded inside my mind before the hat spoke again.

"_Yes,yes, plenty of ambition. Quite cunning too. Oh talent, yes, generously so," _mused the Hat, I could practically feel it whispering into my ear.

A small, pleased smile graced my lips. It was always nice to be praised.

"_A desire to be great…perhaps it will come to you, perhaps it will not. Better be…"_ The hat paused for a moment, it's brim parting upwards.

"SLYTHERIN!"

The sound that came from the hat rung in the silent hall, chilling in its very nature. I removed the hat from atop my head and lay it down on the stool, all the while keeping eye contact with the Headmaster himself. He simply inclined his head and offered me an encouraging smile, his hands politely clapping together.

The whispers of the Great Hall returned in full force, rapid murmurings among individuals. My lips twitched in wry amusement and I walked slowly, deliberately over to the Slytherin table. I deftly noticed my tie had changed colors to incorporate the green and silver marking of Slytherin, it's sigil emblazoned upon the breast of my robes.

"Harry," greeted Daphne, moving over slightly to open a single space next to her. The same pleased smile sat on her lips, perhaps a tad feral in nature.

"Daphne," I returned evenly, taking a seat by her side. I noted the fine golden platter in front of me, accompanied by a similar metallic goblet. These wizards had a strange fixation for gold.

"I'm glad you decided to join the noble house of Slytherin," she whispered as the headmaster himself rose, and held his arms out wide in a welcoming fashion.

"The choice was not mine," I remarked dryly. "The Hat decides where an individual will lie, it was simply a similar affiliation of traits."

A wry smile spread over her lips but for the moment, she said nothing more.

"_Hem, hem," _said a voice from the head table.

I turned and watched a stout witch rise to her feet, the very sight of her was hard on the eyes. Bright pink robes contrasted to the more softer colors of Hogwarts, the wrinkles on her flabby face causing her to resemble a toad in nature. Something didn't fit well with me about her, she seemed to exude false kindness and sympathy.

"Thank you for those wise words, headmaster," she began, moving forward, in preparation of a speech.

For a brief moment of time I saw surprise flicker on Dumbledore's unusually calm face. He took it in his stride however, ceasing his momentary speech and motioning for Dolores Umbridge to speak her part.

And so my interest was piqued -- a teacher, had effectively silenced the Headmaster in one fell swoop. I made a mental note to observe Madam Umbridge carefully -- power like that is not wielded on a mere whim.

"Dolores Umbridge, Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic," provided Daphne in a low whisper as the witch herself began to speak about her new post as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

_Ah._

And so, the stout toad was the Minister's bishop within Hogwarts. A piece that attacks from a distance, one that penetrates layers of defense. I had a lurking feeling that she would becoming an influential piece on this board, right up there with Dumbledore himself.

"Progress for the sake of progress, must be discouraged…"

Blaise snorted.

"_Hem, hem," _called the woman, clearing her throat again. Her lips spread into a sickeningly sweet smile, her next words were coated with enough caramel to harm a small child. "The Ministry only wants what is best for the students. If the curriculum must be," here she gave a girlish giggle, "tinkered with along the way, then so be it."

A murmur rolled through the crowd like a wave against the shore. The Undersecretary to the Minister said nothing more, simply sitting down with a faux smile upon her face. One pudgy hand reached out to grip a goblet of wine and she took a delicate sip, eyes scanning over the crowd victoriously.

The wizened Albus Dumbledore stood upon, his features calm and relaxed. He opened his arms in a broad gesture once more and with a grand motion of his hands, he signaled towards the long tables of the Great Hall. Platters were filled and dishes appeared out of thin air, exquisite trays with steaming food. Pitchers of liquid were filled, goblets were restored with drink.

"Let the Feast begin," proclaimed Dumbledore.

And so it did.

For the first time in a long time, I felt the unquenchable thirst of challenge parch my throat. The pieces were in movement but this was not a usual chessboard. There weren't two forces at play, not even three.

There were four.

A/N: Many have voiced their opinions that this chapter shows the other characters in a far more superior light than what is usually established as canon or for individuals their age. I assure you, this problem is being rectified (and has been, to an extent) in later chapters.


End file.
